


Of Sun And Starlight

by Arnediad



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Deliberate Chaos, Gen, General Chaos, Possible Warnings To be Added, Power Dynamics, Relationships May Change, Sephiroth being initially pretty confused, Thranduil being a dick, alternating povs, reposting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 08:14:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22492897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arnediad/pseuds/Arnediad
Summary: Hojo puts Sephiroth in a vat of mako directly connected with the Planet’s core. He thinks this will give him massive amounts of power. Really it just teleports him into Middle Earth. Specifically, it teleports him into Middle Earth just outside the gates of Greenwood the Great; Thranduil is not happy about this.He is also displeased with the fact that Sephiroth isnearly-so he tells himself-as gloriously attractive as he is.
Relationships: Thranduil/Sephiroth
Comments: 19
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

Sephiroth was fairly sure he’d fallen through a wormhole.

Blinking cluelessly at the scenery around him-and it was _difficult_ to make someone of his combative and intellectual caliber look clueless-the silver-haired FIRST acknowledged that he had no idea where he was. Normally, this wouldn’t be too much of a setback...his sense of direction was impeccable...99.9% of the time. This was-apparently-the 0.01% occurance of its catastrophic failure. He couldn’t tell by looking which way was North, East might as well have been a myth from a children’s tale and West and South were much the same. His instincts were going haywire; there was magic everywhere but it wasn’t the _right_ kind of magic. It was soft...errant...almost whimsical in its presence but at the same time powerful.

His first, most relevant concern was that he didn’t recognize the foliage. The trees were massive and pale; they sported smooth bark and teardrop-shaped, slightly-jagged leaves. Searching his massive cranial catalogue of dendrology, the green-eyed SOLDIER grudgingly noted that he had no idea what they were. They seemed to be the dominant arboreal growth in his immediate vicinity. This told him that he was nowhere he had ever been before, and he was fairly sure he had traveled every continent on Gaia to a rather thorough extent.

The grass was soft...springy and verdant. This too was unusual; with HQ tapping into the Lifestream with ever-increasing force and frequency, much of the Planet’s soil was tainted. Nothing grew with particular lushness anywhere, and he’d never really taken note of it until the current moment. The explosion of plant-related life surrounding him was so bright it nearly hurt his eyes...infused with mako as they were. Everything seemed so _alive_...so stark and clear and somehow breathing in ways that Gaia did not...not anymore in any case. His world had never been this way; his world of chrome and steel and metal and half-wastelands peppered with desperate gasping areas of green was different than this one.

His second concern was how and _why_ he was where he was.

The how wasn’t that complicated; Hojo had taken a single mako tank and fed its pipes directly into the Planet’s core; had let the raw, unprocessed essence of the Lifestream churn up into the sublevel holding tanks until the cylindrical shape seemed to glow with it. Sometimes Sephiroth wondered why he was the one who was always privy to the ‘Good Doctor’s’ madnesses; why he had to endure for the sake of the greater good. But he was loyal, he was steadfast even if sometimes he wished for a mentality in which he was not so drop-of-the-hat obedient. ...But it was all he’d ever known. That...and death...bloodshed and rage, the song of the sword and the screams of those he had killed.

Hojo had opened the tank...and pushed him in.

Shifting slightly on the grass, the General rubbed his leather-clad arm in a somewhat absent minded manner. The rest of it was hazy...given to him in broken snippets that didn’t make much sense whatsoever. He could recall the sensation of falling...of something yanked within him so tight he wasn’t entirely sure his abdomen wouldn’t come out through his spine. Falling...a recollection of falling...endless depth and _hot_ but cold, disorientation and a vastness so great something within him had shivered at the gargantuity of it. There was an absence...of something. He didn’t know what it was...only that it had always lingered in the recesses of his psyche...whispering, _hissing_...and now...nothing. He’d always been inundated with a vague purpose that was never quite clear...a terrible aim that he’d flinched before when his thoughts became too dark.

Now...his mind was empty of all save for himself.

The sense of loss at its egress he could credit to psychology; you didn’t live with vague...disembodied presences in your brain and not miss them when they were gone. It was a bit like losing a friend, though he wasn’t entirely sure that he’d ever had friends. He and Genesis were constantly butting heads and Angeal was friendly but far to enmired in the concepts of kindness and honor. Not that _he_ didn’t believe in honor, but it was always a background to his sense of engrained duty. _Friendliness_ was always a bit second par because whenever he smiled people tended to think he was considering different ways to murder them. Now...he was without a purpose. Grunting in a somewhat self-deprecating manner, Sephiroth acknowledged that this wasn’t exactly true; he had to get back to HQ. He had to get back and write a report regarding this strange, undiscovered place and perhaps avoid Hojo for a few months just for the sake of making him panic about where he’d been teleported off to.

The problem was-of course-that he didn’t know where HQ was.

If he could find a helicopter-something he wasn’t entirely sure he could do-he could fly above the treeline and gather his bearings. There was always-of course-the option of _climbing_ the trees but that wouldn’t give him a large vantage point and he needed something other than a generalized locale. A mountain range he recognized...a familiar body of water...anything, really. Feasibly, he could also look for intelligent life, but he didn’t know how friendly that intelligent life would be and he was-as Fair would say- _’square terrifying on a normal day off the battlefield.’_ It wasn’t exactly a secret that his people skills were abysmal. He was decent with diplomacy, but most of his diplomatic missions had involved HQ sending word of his arrival ahead of time. The exception, of course, was Wutai, but that had just involved a lot of killing and he was good at that but he didn’t want to kill the locals without finding anything out first.

He still had Masamune.

Someone else might have considered that a relief, but he'd long ago learned that relying on your weapon alone to see you through was not only foolhardy, it was arrogant. More concerning was the fact that his materia-what little he carried with him-was non-functional. Pulling a Cure out of his pocket, Sephiroth was disheartened but not particularly surprised when he attempted to draw upon its power and promptly discovered he was holding on to what amounted to a rock. Further inspection proved that it did not glow, did not possess any particular uniqueness other than being smooth, shiny, and somewhat green. This was fine; he could bandage a wound-or several-just fine on his own. Mortal wounds were-of course-more difficult, but that was neither here nor there and if he died he died. The General had long ago learned that mortality was something as inevitable as the tide.

Tilting his head to the side, green eyes narrowed as their owner clenched his fist tightly before letting go, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together in a contemplative manner. Glancing up at the sky proved that it was becoming swiftly dark, and he knew better than to venture into unknown places at night. Normally, travelling by starlight didn't bother him, and the stars here were so bright he could almost already see them despite the fact that night hadn't fallen yet. No, what left him with reticence was the complete unknown of what he might face. He supposed, in some ways that that was a facet of cowardice, but limitless confidence did no one any favors, and he had to draw a line somewhere. He could fix a lean-to, find something to eat, and then go to sleep in order to start fresh. It was a basic training tactic new recruits learned straight off; and while he was reluctant to fall into SOLDIER 'infancy’, it was an effective method nevertheless.

His first priority was shelter.

Standing, drawing Masamune and marching towards one of the trees, he paused. Upon approaching it, his purpose of cutting it down suddenly seemed heinous...like he was cutting away something deeply sacred. The minute the thought crossed his mind he gravely questioned his sanity, because he was not Genesis and he did not believe in the 'aliveness’ of everything and it's connection to the earth. He dispatched of the tree methodologically and professionally and shoved the uncertainty he felt about cutting off each limb to the wayside. While he did so, he firmly told himself that he was doing this for survival. The fact that he could quite easily sleep on the ground without cover was not important. This was training, it was simple and efficient and clean and there was nothing 'sinful’ about it. It did not matter that it now felt like a large section of the forest was glaring murderously at him...not at all.

The feeling intensified when he tried to hunt.

Setting his sights on a large rabbit in an adjoining thicket, Sephiroth managed to corner and snatch it up by the ears before an intense feeling of disapproval nearly caused him to drop it. He didn't, of course; he was a SOLDIER, not a teenage girl with a love for all things fuzzy and soft. He did, however, make its passing as swift as possible and made sure to bury what he couldn't use to eat. Returning to create a fire-with the apparently intense disapproval of the forest-the silver-haired FIRST reflected that he'd be sincerely grateful to leave the area and its bizarre naturistic inclinations behind. He ate quickly, with the distinctly annoying sensation of being a child eating something strictly forbidden by his caretakers. What remained he disposed of in much the same manner as the carcass, and he let the fire burn for a while to dispel the smell of cooked meat before logging it up to allow it to slowly die overnight.

Setting up the lean-to didn't take long. Initially, he'd intended to erect it next to a tree, but the distinct and ridiculous feeling of placing a 'dead body’ next to a family member persisted in his frontal cortex. He ended up fashioning a wikiup with a makeshift bough bed and was satisfied with the results. The mako in his system kept the going steady despite the low light, and when he was done he was fairly certain he'd sleep better than he usually did on most missions. The greenery he used for the bough bed was incredibly soft as far as greens went. And the spare leaves, limbs, and brush gathered to cover the frame were thick and insulated well. Somewhat regretfully, Sephiroth acknowledged that if he'd worn a turtleneck under his uniform he could use his coat as a blanket; but there was no use regretting things now.

Settling down for the night was harder than he anticipated it would be.

The shelter in of itself was perfect and he was quite comfortable, but the watchful nature of the forest set his teeth on edge. It got to the point that he was forced to get up and run through several hand to hand combat cycles before he felt even close to tired enough to ignore it. He knew better than to dismiss the sensation entirely, of course. Magic worked in strange ways and he did not want to wake up in a compromised situation, but he still wanted to sleep. Feeling somewhat better, the silver-haired FIRST lay back down and peered at the stars twinkling through a slight gap between frame and foliage. He didn't think he'd seen such stars before and that was very concerning. Sephiroth was not an astrologist, but SOLDIERS were taught astral patterns from varying locational vantage points to help them navigate should the situation arise. He didn't know these stars or their constellations. It only solidified his certainty that perhaps he wasn't on Gaia anymore.

He didn't know how to feel about that.

The professional in him insisted that such a concept was preposterous. It whispered that he was tired and confused and not looking at things correctly. There was another part of him, however, that whispered that he was only rationalizing it because if that was the case, there was a very good chance he wouldn't be able to return...and then what would he do with himself? Live in the woods forever? Offer his services to a company here? He didn't particularly like the idea of being a mercenary but he didn't want to take that particular card off the table in case he became desperate. Killing was a facet of his personality, he was used to it, he was _comfortable_ with it. And he didn't want to not be a SOLDIER, all considerations and insecurities aside. He liked training the men, liked doing paperwork and liked leading missions. He was successful and happy and unconcerned with what others might consider a 'normal’ life because he'd never gotten the opportunity to live normally.

Normalcy seemed like a crutch.

As it was...he forced himself to think of it another time; when his eyes weren't growing heavy and his breathing wasn't becoming deep and even. With the unfamiliar stars spinning above, Sephiroth slept.

* * *

He woke to several people trying to quietly slip into his camp.

Ripping his way out of his shelter in the blink of an eye and catching his would-be-possible-apprehenders gobsmacked and shocked, he acknowledged that they weren't human. For one, everything about them was too perfect. They were lithe, slim, fine-boned with aquiline, almost delicate features whose pants Genesis would have declared _'worthy of getting into’_. Dismissing aesthetic, they were adroit, quick-footed and impossibly fast. Sephiroth discovered this when he tried to retreat and found one in his path so swiftly it was as if ‘she'd’ teleported there without moving a muscle. She had a bow and arrow, and bright hazel eyes were sizing up his sword like he was overcompensating for something. Raising a silver brow, the silver-haired FIRST ‘hmphed’ and then promptly vaulted over her head. He took the time to note her pointed ears before he was off into the undergrowth.

Immediately, there was an explosion of excited chatter behind him. He didn't recognize the language but he did recognize that they all seemed rather delighted with him and that was very strange. He was-so he assumed-an intruder in their territory but they seemed deliriously happy to give him a head start before the sounds of their pursuit became apparent. They talked as they went, which was so bizarre he didn't even think about it. Several of them took to the trees like it was as easy as breathing and their laughter followed him like wind chimes on the breeze. They weren't loud...he'd give them that. An unenhanced human running from them wouldn't have known which way to turn, but he was-thankfully-very enhanced. This seemed to only make them happier, and he was soon sprinting through unknown woodland with pursuers at his back that might as well have been singing.

Normally, he'd have attacked them outright.

Something in him had whispered that he needn't, however, so he settled with avoidance until he could talk to them on his own terms. He didn't like being caught off guard; liked being caught off guard by a non-human sentient race with reflexes nearly equal to his own even less. Skidding into a clearing, Sephiroth had the distinct displeasure of watching one drop from the trees directly in front of him. Dark haired with light eyes and a suspiciously friendly demeanor, he-assuming it was a he-cocked his head and smiled so widely that the silver-haired man was shocked his face didn't split in half. He was not on Gaia, _no one_ was so friendly on Gaia if they wanted to live a long and happy life.

 _”Mae g'ovannen! Agóreg vae, hir nin!”_ A sweeping bow and if he were a lesser man he'd have gaped. When his adversary righted himself, his expression was slightly more sober, but still benevolent. Stretching out a hand, he jerked his head. ” _ _ _Tolo, govano ven.”___

Well, that much he could comprehend. Gritting his teeth, Sephiroth sidestepped his friendly opponent, feinted right, and took a left.

“No.” he threw over his shoulder.

 _ _ _”Galu!”___ was the cheerful reply. Several seconds passed before the sounds of his conversant’s friends caught up with him, and he heard the comment. ___”Westron,ma, naw? Menathab!”___

It took a good long while, but he did eventually lose them.

Sephiroth was forced to venture into darker, slightly more distasteful-feeling parts of the forest but he shook them near a large brook whose water made him feel sick just by looking at it. It carried a strange aura, and he didn’t stop to drink, merely passed on until he was fairly sure that he was truly alone. Here, the woods were muggy, somewhat hot...and even his usually-impeccable vision was compromised. The trees were different as well; gnarled oaks with dark and flaky bark, black canopies, and a kind of sticky, unpleasant web-like substance was strung between them that he couldn’t at first glance identify. Moths abounded in large and ugly quantities and he couldn’t walk more than a few paces without pausing to swat a dozen or so out of his face. This would have been fine-he’d been through much worse on reconnaissance missions-but he was promptly attacked by a spider the size of motorcycle. Said vehicle-sized arachnid apparently had backup, and by the time he was done dispatching them he was covered in disgusting, oleaginous blood and he smelled absolutely horrendous.

He backtracked so he could bathe.

This was easier said than done. The forest seemed to waylay his progress at every turn; he encountered trees that he couldn’t recall passing, edged into dark clearings he had no memory of traversing. It was almost as if the scenery around him shifted in order to deceive him. He wasn’t ignorant to magical woodlands; there were rumors that the Sleeping Forest tended to swallow those foolish enough to wander in...never to return. This, however, was ridiculous. He’d never managed to get so dirty within a few days of starting a mission; no matter how treacherous the terrain. He was also not a sloppy killer, but when you had adversaries that seemed to vomit their bodily fluids out of every orifice upon dispatch, hissing and clicking all the while, it was somewhat more difficult. He had never-by his memory-encountered an enemy that died in so offensively filthy a manner. Sephiroth didn’t rise to ire easily, but he’d also never been to a place that was so disturbingly beautiful and so disgusting at the same time.

His camp was overrun.

Specifically, there were a number of robed, stately individuals waltzing about his camp, muttering to themselves and each other, waving plants, and looking decidedly stern. They did, he acknowledged, look far more professional than the ruffians he had encountered before. He nearly made to speak with them when he realized-at the last split second-that he was covered in blood, his hair was a mess, and he was in no decorative state to carry on a diplomatic conversation. There was a brook perhaps half a mile to the East that he’d sprinted by earlier, and he determined to go there and make himself at least not look like a threat before he tried to talk to anyone. This was-again-easier said than done, and it took him forty five minutes to find it again. By the time he did, he was given the distinct impression that he was being watched but there was nothing for it. Stripping off his uniform, the silver-haired SOLDIER slid over the bank and into the clear water while keeping an eye on his surroundings.

He made it as quick as was feasibly possible.

Washing himself didn’t take long, but his uniform took more work. He had to veritably soak it and scrub what soil remained with handfuls of brush that he found before it was even halfway to satisfactorily clean. Normally, he’d have used a materia to dry his clothes but he’d left his materia behind at the camp...they were nothing more than hindrances at this point. The sun was waning once again, so leaving his garments to lose some of their wet in the sun was equally impossible. He discovered-to his great chagrin-that pulling on wet leathers was rather like trying to re-peel a piece of fruit. The green-eyed FIRST struggled with his pants for a good ten minutes before he could get them on his person in a way that was remotely acceptable. His other garments didn’t take half as long, but by the time he was finished he was feeling more than irritated.

Sephiroth supposed this was why he was caught so easily upon returning to his camp.

And really, it wasn’t like he’d failed to be quiet. He took utmost care not to retrace his steps; to take a roundabout route that would bring him up at the rear. The strange, robed individuals were still there but they were mostly talking quietly among themselves in their strange, musical language. Crouching behind a large, foreign tree, he debated on the best avenue of approach. He could always simply walk in, but there was no guarantee he wouldn’t be shot, with a bow or otherwise. His strange forest companions might have been benevolent towards him before, but after making them spend the whole day tracking him, they had to be less than thrilled with his avoidance. There was always the option of holding one of them hostage. He could step out behind whoever was closest to the treeline, put Masamune to their throat and then demand some type of direction out of the forest. He didn’t really want to make enemies if he didn’t have to, however, and he dithered far too long.

Up close...they were even more beautiful.

The waning sun threw its shimmering rays on alabaster skin...accentuated high cheekbones and shapely smiles underneath laughing eyes. Despite their awareness of his presence, they were clearly easy in their demeanor. Nothing about them bespoke of any sort of tension drawn from the fact that there was an armed individual in their territory that could possibly kill them. He couldn’t draw an official first impression from them at all...and he didn’t know if that indicated that they were simply confident in their skillset and environment or very foolhardy. They were also very clearly skilled in combat. Someone without his training woudn’t have noticed it, but their posture, while casual, was deeply observant. They seemed heavily attuned to the environment around them, and even if they didn’t look towards the occasional, naturalistic sounds of the forest...they still took note. A cocked head here, a lean to the left there; they positioned themselves in synchronicity to one another, never left their backs to the treeline very long. In a different situation, Sephiroth would have been practically gnawing at the bit to learn about their battle tactics. He’d worked with his personal squadron for nearly a decade and they weren’t half so attuned to their teammates. He supposed that firearms made up for the lack of communication, but it would still have been quite the opportunity to gain knowledge. In the end...his attention to what was the before him was what blinded him to what was approaching from behind.

Specifically, a blade came up from behind and pressed against his throat.

At first, he was momentarily shocked...because really, that was impossible. He’d never been snuck up on before. Let alone snuck up on in a situation where he was the observer and his adversaries the searchers. Heat from another body raidated close at this back...tense but not unprofessionally so...poised on the edge of a kind of finesse he couldn’t fathom. When he jerked slightly the blade dug in...kept going until a thin...fine runnel of blood trickled from his jawline to his collar. He was-abruptly-aware that the clearing before him had fallen silent...that the subjects of his attention were gone as if they had never been...and he cursed his idiocy. He had fallen for distraction, as they had suspected he would...or so he imagined. How they had deduced his interest, he didn’t know...nor did he know how they had premeditated it beforehand.

“That’s quite a sword you have, mellon.”

The voice in question was smooth, slightly accented and heavily aristocratic. Inflected, clearly masculine...lighthearted but with a threat hanging in the undertones...it lingered even after the verbalization had gone...was gravid with a kind of simmering watchfulness combined with severe authority. When Sephiroth made no move to escape, the body behind him shifted. At first, he assumed that whoever it was meant to pull away, but he was wrong. Instead, the form at his rear settled, as if readying itself for a lengthy conversation. Gritting his teeth, the General acknowledged that this was quite averse to how he’d envisioned things going...but even he knew the limits of his mortality. The blade at this throat was heavy...engraved and masterfully crafted...he could tell merely by looking at it. It wasn’t like any blade he had ever seen, but it still emanated that familiar, whimsical power he had sensed from the woods around him. Sephiroth was not a coward, but he knew better than to mess with magical circumstances...and it was clear at this point that this was magical beyond what he knew. Genesis might know...but he did not.

“Now” the voice continued. “You come into my kingdom...you cut down my trees...you evade my footmen...and yet still you return...to bathe no less.” By the end of the sentence, his companion’s tone had turned incredulous, but it was a faux form of surprise. Underneath the initial tonality was a kind of watchful derisiveness layered with a thick distrust. “You speak Westron, but you are not human...no human could evade my soldiers for long...yet you did so.” A velvety chuckle followed. “You’re quite the sight to them, you know. I suppose that’s why they didn’t kill you…’tis avarice, I fear...us elves and our love for pretty things.” The voice sighed. “And you are quite pretty...disheveled as you are...I can see why they took such a shining to you.”

He couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so he settled with something more generalized.

“It was just one tree” he replied tonelessly.

“Ma, I did take note of that. And I suppose I should thank you for using it so respectfully and thoroughly, along with the rabbit, but I’m not going to. You see, as King, I don’t have to thank you for anything.”

“I wasn’t aware that Kings still held status in this day and age” Sephiroth snapped thoughtlessly.

There was a long pause, and he could sense the body behind him stiffen before relaxing once more.

“And where do you come from, I wonder, where there are no Kings?” Angry with himself for his verbal misstep, the silver-haired SOLDIER gritted his teeth and kept silent. “How many years have you seen?”

Figuring that this question, at the very least, could broker him no harm, the General opened his mouth.

“Twenty-seven.”

For the first time, he seemed to have surprised his companion. There was silence at this back for a long moment before the voice spoke again. When it did, laughter was laced in every facet of its tone.

“You are but a babe” was the chortled response. “Though I suppose your brashness should have given me warning of such a fact.” At this, Sephiroth made a pointed move to break away and was unable to stop the hiss of pain that escaped through his teeth as the blade bit in harder. “Ah ah, none of that. You are a warrior too, I see. But I have you here...and here you will remain until I make a decision.”

Sephiroth wanted to protest that he was not an infant, that his lack of years didn't make him inferior. He was a General, a war hero...a man who'd led his men into countless battles while still keeping his pride and his integrity intact. He had upheld the reputation of the company he served with honor and fierce determination; had suffered through countless, needless 'checkups’ in the Science Division, gritted his teeth and borne it for the sake of the greater good...because that was what had to be done. Sephiroth had led his first skirmish at thirteen and had trained for warfare since he was six years old. His reputation and name were steeped in blood, power, and fear. He said none of these things...better that the enemy think that he was weak...better that he catch them off guard and at the right moment.

“You have done my forest a disservice and yet an even greater service.” As if sensing his confusion at the statement, the voice went on. “The network of spiders you dispatched has plagued my people and travelers for many a moon. The wood in that area is sick...cursed and diseased, but they only added to its treacherousness. Your sword has done me a great favor.”

“It was not an intentional favor” Sephiroth deadpanned.

The laugh he received in return was genuine this time, genuine and delighted.

“Oh, I didn't think so, mellon, but it is a favor regardless of intent, and so I owe you a debt of honor.” There was a pause. “However, that does not change the fact that you have wandered into my realm, a stranger, an outsider with strange physical prowess, a strange blade, stranger dress and a coldness to you I do not know. I am a distrustful ruler, and I dislike letting the unknown wander forth with knowledge of my realm upon his lips...no matter what good he may do for me or my people.” A heavy sign. “No you shall stay a while, I think. Until we might know you, and your purpose.”

“...And if I don't agree?”

This drew a reaction. Specifically, it drew a painful reaction. A hand yanked at his hair; drew it back tight and hard; the strength behind it was pointed, intentional, and unmistakable. His neck was bared to the wakening stars, and the blade before it reflected their light with a fierce, bitter light as it bit further. He would need bandaging now...though he uttered no sound to protest the action. When his companion spoke again, his tone was black as the void.

“Then maybe I should kill you here and now, it would spare me the trouble of dragging you back to the Halls. It would certainly spare me the bother of having an extra belly to fill... especially if it's an ungrateful one.”

Sephiroth aceded.

It took putting aside every aspect of his pride to do so, but he aceded. Still stiff, still roiling with an indignant rage, he surrendered, as he had never done in his life. The shame he felt was ingrained, was a stain on his honor…but he gave way.

“...May I at least know your name?”

This he had to force over his tongue...it was grating, bitter and resentful, but he said it nevertheless. Again, the 'voice’ seemed to consider his query before replying.

“Perhaps you should deign to give me yours before you ask such things.”

Gritting his teeth for what felt like the thousandth time, the green-eyed SOLDIER opened his mouth.

“Sephiroth” he spat out.

“...A strange name” was the suave response, and he nearly bit through his lip. “My name is Thranduil, son of Oropher, King of the Greenwood…You Sephiroth, are my guest...for now…”

“...However, I have no qualms in regards to making you my prisoner.”


	2. Chapter 2

Erain Thranduil was having a rather strange evening.

Really, it had been a rather odd day overall, but the evening seemed to bring everything to a head. He’d woken up in good spirits; spring had come for the Greenwood. The grass was growing, flowers were blooming, afternoon showers left an ethereal, dewy halo about new leaves and the usually slow winter shipments to and from Laketown were picking up momentum. There was fresh food in the cellars; new wine and cheese, and what crops were planted in his kingdom would surely flourish in the months ahead. The people were happier too. Yuletide was a time for celebration, but afterwards the months grew long, dark, and cold and by the time the snow started to melt most everyone was ready for it. _Eryn Galen_ was beautiful covered in tufty, glittering drifts...but it was never an easy time. Food was often scarce...especially with the ailing part of the forest ever-expanding, and the caves were dark, moist, and cold. 

...It really wasn’t _Eryn Galen_ anymore, however.

Only a small portion of the woodland remained untouched by the great Darkness that emanated from _Dol Guldur_. Sometimes, it confused him. Mithrandir insisted that Sauron had been driven out...that he had fled during the mysterious battle that occured in the depths of the black fortress that had once been the capital of his people...the pride of his father. The Necromancer was gone...granted, not vanquished….but the bitter, sickening evil of his presence remained. He had tried to heal the forest...his people had tried. At one point, he had asked Gandalf to try but the old wizard had looked at him in a somewhat consternating manner and told him that he could not possibly expect him to _’close up a wound when the rot remained in the flesh.’_ Thranduil was keen enough to comprehend what he meant...was not so close-minded that he could not understand that the Maiar was saying that Sauron must die before the forest could fully be healed...but he did not have to like it. 

Nay, he did not have to like that the wicked sickness spreading through his beautiful trees marched ever-closer...and he did not have to like that the monstrous spiders that spawned from its putrid depths often dragged his kin into squalid holes and fed on their corpses for weeks on end. He did not have to find joy in the truth that the Darkness made elven births few...far between and fraught with pain and peril...and he did not have to like that those that wandered in the corrupt spaces of the woodland too long were wont to return half-mad. When the sickness began, he didn’t know what it was. If he wasn’t several hundred years old and didn’t know any better, he might have attributed such things to an ancient magic...like Tauremornalómë. He did know better, however, and Fangorn’s strangeness was that of a fey nature...defensive but not steeped in evil. It grew and grew and more and more of his people fell into shadow...so he led them over the river and into the Eastern part of the forest. Now, he was forced to watch as that darkness crept in upon them like a seeping stain...and he dreaded the day when he would have to announce his beloved woodland unfit for his subjects to safely reside. Feasibly, it would be-in human chronology-quite a long time...but the ingress of it all seemed like the blink of an eye to him. 

These were the thoughts that plagued him on a near-constant basis. They were the terrible worries that drove him from his bed and left him staring at the stars at night. Thankfully, his most recent night was quite restful...but the day that followed it was not. He’d woken to Feren crashing through his chamber doors and announcing that there was an intruder in the Greenwood. His first thoughts-quite logically, in his opinion-jumped immediately to orcs or spiders. Stumbling out of bed, still somewhat groggy with sleep, he wished fiercely that Legolas was still about to send out on such ventures. His son-however-was away with the Ranger Aragorn and he hadn’t heard from him in three moons so he had to do such things himself. Elrond was rather insistent in reminding him that if he appointed a new Captain of the Guard, he wouldn’t have to...but some part of him balked at the idea of replacing his child with some possibly-less-competent-ellon. 

_”How many?!”_ he’d barked, reaching for his tunic. 

_”Just one, hiril vuin”_ was the somewhat pensive reply. 

This gave him pause. Because surely his men had not become so dreadfully incompetent overnight that they were incapable of dispatching a single intruder. Granted, the Greenwood elves were somewhat overfond of drink, but even the least surefooted of his footmen could string an arrow with a bottle of wine in his system. If he had gotten up at the edge of dawn to help his entire army dispatch a wandering spiderling he would surely kill them all. ‘Twould be a mercy really, and would spare them the horror and shame of their stupidity. Grumbling to himself and pulling his clothes on in a rather haphazard manner, Thranduil acknowledged that despite the fact that elves were blessed with longevity, extensive stamina and rather good looks, it did not stop them from being air headed on the odd occasion. He would take a great and savage pleasure in deflating whatever idiot thought it was necessary to drag their King into the forest so early in the morning the birds sounded sleepy. Fully dressed in light armament with his sword strapped to his waist, the Elvenking ate the lembas his attendant passed to him with a nod of irritated thanks before striding to the door of his chambers. Before exiting, he turned back and watched as the dark-haired ellon began making his bed. 

_”Feren”_ he’d snapped. 

_”My lord?”_ was the ever-patient reply.

_”Inform the council upon my return that I wish to resign my Kingship. If they enquire as to why, tell them that I tire of looking after a realm of infants.”_

Feren blinked.

 _”I shall make a note of it, my Lord”_ he said with the air of someone who was often chasing after a giant hypocritical elfling.  
At the Gates, the situation was somewhat more disgusting than he’d originally anticipated. There were a gaggle of ellon hanging about, chattering excitedly to one another and clearly waiting for him. It was certainly not the picture of combat-related stress that he’d envisioned and it was certainly not serious enough-by the look of it-to rouse him from his sleep. With the beech trees thrusting their new leaves out above, however...it was hard not to appreciate the beauty of the morning regardless. He wasn’t, by habit, a late riser...and he wouldn’t have minded it if it was clearly not the emergency that it had been made out to be. Upon sighting him, the company sobered somewhat but were clearly no less joyful or carefree. Some of them sported grass stains on their clothes and they’d all quite apparently just been through a rather exhilarating sprint through the forest. Their bows were unsheathed but using them was evidently an afterthought. Raising a dark brow, Thranduil came to a stop before them and crossed his arms expectantly. 

_“Arduil vaer hiril vuin!”_ was the initial greeting, and he’d nodded in response. The speaker’s name was Imrathon, if he remembered correctly. A member of the lesser guard, good with the bow and possessing a keen eye. _“There is a beautiful stranger in the forest!”_

Thranduil’s eye twitched. Because that explained why said stranger was not dead...though it did not explain why they were not captured. And he wanted to sigh explosively because of course his men were not going to shoot something pretty full of arrows. It would-in their opinion-be a grave misstep. 

_”Tell me of this stranger”_ he’d replied wearily. _”So that we may be rid of them.”_

That was easier said than done.

Getting _rid_ of them, in any case. Quite joyfully, he was told that the mysterious person in question had hair as long as a river and silver as starlight, eyes like the finest of emeralds, and a face _‘that would make the Valar weep.’_ When he was informed of this he grumpily wondered if perhaps Celeborn had come to visit and gotten turned about in the forest. There was no reason that he would run from his men, however, and it did not explain his apparently strange dress and ‘nine-foot dirk.’ It could, therefore, not be Celeborn. The Lord of Lothlorien was far too old to be mischievous to such an extent and they were not well-acquainted enough for him to turn his kingdom upside-down for no reason regardless. Thranduil was somewhat leery with Imrathon’s insistence that the individual in question was not an elf, because there was not a humanoid creature on Middle Earth that could easily outrun an elf, let alone _his_ elves in _his_ kingdom. The golden-haired ruler bristled a little bit when it was mentioned that the stranger had cut down a tree for woodfire, because that was not appropriate behavior either. Imrathon went on to describe the nameless individual’s dispatch of a major network of spiders and he was-at this point-so confused that he simply called for the guardsman to be quiet. 

From there, he had to ameliorate the situation before it got out of control. He went to see the Elders and asked several of them to ride out to the campsite and gather whatever information they could. He then sent the squadron back out into the forest to locate the stranger again, which they did quite happily. Thranduil gave explicit orders to refrain from trying to make contact again, asked that they report back rotationally every half-sixty-turn and to tell him if the stranger did anything drastic. This was somewhat of a mistake, because the reports came back that the mysterious person was returning to the unblighted part of the Greenwood. He then had the severe displeasure of being informed that said person was bathing and that their body was ‘pale as milk’ with ‘fine muscles’ and ‘shapely buttocks.’ The elf that relayed this particular message he sent to a talon on the outskirts of the forest with the order to not return until she could maintain some form of decorum. She went quite happily with a dazed look on her face and nary a complaint. At this point, with nothing but laud pouring in from the scouts, Thranduil decided to take matters into his own hands. Obviously, it was someone under some type of glamour, or possibly even a dangerous sorcerer betwitching his hapless people. 

The ElvenKing called for Tûrin and rode the elk to the campsite. The elders were still there, and they had very little to report save for procuring strange round stones of varying colors that appeared to be rather useless. There was also the remains of a shelter, a cold fire, and a buried rabbit carcass. He filed away the terminology of ‘skilled survivalist’ for later, and sat the elders down to formulate a plan for apprehending their mysterious companion. If his instincts were correct-and they usually were-the man in question was not accustomed to elves. He had run from them, which told him that he was either a foe or a foreigner. A foe would not dispatch a network of spiders, and so he was forced to go with the latter. He was also forced to acknowledge that a sorcerer would not bother to be so tidy with the campsite, nor so thorough with the use of resources. In the end, he waited in the bushes while the elders made a great show of looking mystical and attractive by human standards. Somewhat indignantly, he reflected that a King should not have to hide in the bushes, but this was what it had come to. Listening to the sound of foreign footsteps draw closer, he acknowledged that when he went to bed that night, he would at least rest easy knowing this foolishness was over.

It turned out that his men were not enchanted.

As the brush parted before the individual in question, it took quite a bit of Thranduil’s will not to stare stupidly at him. Because no human he had ever encountered before was so comely. And really, _comely_ was an understatement but he was determined not to go for the grandiose. Fine-featured...at least as tall as himself; slender but clearly muscular. The lips underneath a strong but proportionate nose were shapely but not overly large; the hands that gripped the massive sword at a well-worked waist were adroit and clever. His hair was silver...but he was young for a human...too young to have refinement in his hair, at the very least. He might have guessed that he was half-elven, but he couldn’t sense any kinship in him...though he _could_ sense that he wasn’t entirely human either. Platinum brows were straight and strong, observant...watchful. He walked with a warrior’s bearing, with a kind of strung tension that made Thranduil’s teeth rattle just for seeing it. Fighting him-he sensed-would be a challenge...a good one. One didn’t wield a sword of such size with simplicity...and he walked easily with it...was unencumbered by its presence. The weapon and the individual were one...or the individual _was_ a weapon… At the thought...unease slithered down his spine. 

Those eyes were cold...not necessarily mindless...but certainly hard and pained. Thranduil had seen such pain in eyes far older...in the eyes of those who had passed before him. No man should have such a look...a look that bespoke knowledge beyond his possible years...beyond the years that a human would live. He was-momentarily-tempted to kill him just for having that look...because the troubles that would come with it were surely vast. At the same time, he wanted to know more...because one did not encounter someone so different often. This was-shockingly-a singular experience in Thranduil’s _very_ long life, and he was reluctant to toss it away. Still...he could be an agent of Sauron...an unknown threat that could hurt his people...threaten his legacy. He could not safely welcome such unknown...had never been so careless as to do so in the past...and certainly would not do so now. There was first the matter of apprehension, only then could he afford to cater to his curiosity. 

The ploy worked.

Stepping up behind his target, Thranduil couldn’t help but feel a small modicum of pride for his people. They handled potential crisis situations well, if a little bit whimsically. Despite the fact that he often felt like he was pulling teeth trying to get them to do anything seriously, they were still masterful at the end of the day. With the elders gone, he was free to talk...free to enquire as he wished. The voice that replied to him was deep, velvety and inherently thoughtful; careful to think before speaking...careful to reply with only as much information as was required. His captive was angry...that much was clear...he struggled but gave little voice to the pain of the Elvenking’s blade at this throat...even when it bit deep. 

That took discipline. 

Really, it took _decades_ of discipline and when it was declared that the mysterious man was twenty seven Thranduil laughed but it was mostly out of shock. Shock...and a little bit of horror. Because whoever had trained the individual in question had trained him young...too young. There weren’t any laws regarding letting children practice with wooden swords and training bows...but pain tolerance was a built thing….and it was only built in battle. That...or torture. Children were nearly sacred to elves; so rare were they now...so few. To throw an elfling into battle when he was barely out of the cradle was a crime punishable by death...and elves did not issue death sentences lightly. Humans were notoriously more crass with their young, but this...this was an evil he was not accustomed to, even in Men. He didn’t have time for pity now, however...didn’t know if he _wanted_ to have pity...so he kept up the kingly pretense...remained authoritative and distant. 

His name was Sephiroth. 

Three-syllabled, like his own title. It was a strange name...carried a mysterious, heavy kind of weight with it. Thranduil was wary when he ceded to his terms, but he supposed that he must have nowhere else to go. When he withdrew his sword, he waited for the impending attack, but it didn’t come. Instead, Sephiroth straightened and rolled his neck...heedless of the blood flowing rather freely down into his collar. Thranduil didn’t offer to bandage it because he sensed that it would be an affront...though how he knew that he couldn’t say. They were of equal height, and that was no small thing. His silver-haired captive carried himself with authority, with the air of someone who had commanded...and the air of someone who was commanded. He didn’t know what that meant….didn’t know if it boded for good or for ill. In the end, the Elvenking turned and led the way back to Tûrin, was unsurprised to see a gaggle of sentries waiting for him looking half-guilty and half painfully curious. Sephiroth followed like a silent shadow...said nothing...only observed with a detached...professional focus. At the sight of Tûrin, he paused for but a moment before drawing level with him. Observing his men with a weary kind of fondness, Thranduil gestured to the green-eyed individual.

“This is Sephiroth” he said calmly. “He is a guest in our halls...for now. Send word ahead to have a chamber made up for him.” 

There was a chorus of _’Mae govannen, Sephiroth’_ s before two of the scouts broke off to scramble into the trees and take off towards the Halls. The man in question’s eyes followed them cautiously, watched their progress blankly, and it took Thranduil a moment before he acknowledged that he was curious...but was reluctant to put it into words.

“My people value the trees...they were our home...for a long time” he said calmly, turning to Tûrin. “Before the darkness came to our forest, we lived in them predominantly...with the wind in our hair and the clouds above us.” 

“...What happened?” 

Quiet, toneless and yet seeking. The Elvenking considered the individual before him...stiff-backed...standing at attention yet subtly ill at ease. 

“A great evil came...from Angmar...a corrupt sorcerer descended upon _Eryn Galen_ and cast it into Darkness. He sundered our capitol...took it for himself and his allies and laid waste to those who lived there.” 

“...And you did not kill him?”

Regarding the man steadily, Thranduil tilted his head.

“We drove him out...but he lives...so the Darkness lives.” He stroked Tûrin absentmindedly. “And some evils do not die so easily...but I think you know that.”

Green eyes pierced him for a moment...silent yet alive in a way that was unconscionable. It was strange...to be so disturbed by someone he did not know...to understand that the individual before him was a very great man without knowing his tale.

“Yes.”

The reply was flat but tinged with a velvet...inky blackness. Nodding to himself, Thranduil gestured for Sephiroth to climb up. When the silver-haired man did nothing but blink confusedly, he opened his mouth. 

“We will ride back, it’s faster than walking, unless you wish to take the trees, which I sincerely doubt.” 

“I am not riding a moose.” 

Thranduil huffed impatiently.

“Tûrin is an elk, not a moose. It’s not so different from riding a horse. If it pains you, I can ride to the fore, I have no misgivings regarding my honor or my pride.” 

At the mention of honor, Sephiroth’s face spasmed, but he recovered quickly. Squaring his jaw, the younger man strode forward and-after a minute or so of carefully concealed confusion-swung up onto Tûrin’s back, shifting deliberately towards the front. Thranduil followed without comment...mounted easily and murmured a wordless thanks when he was handed the reigns. Shaking them, he was forced to grasp the silver-haired man’s waist when he nearly fell off. 

“One would think that you didn’t ride often” he commented idly as the elk settled into a steady trot. 

“I don’t” was the reply through gritted teeth. “At all.” 

“Ahh, I see. A fear of them then, is it? I don’t blame you _mellon_ , horses can be dreadfully tempered, especially when trained poorly.” 

“No” Sephiroth said flatly. “Helicopters are simply faster and much more efficient. Horses are so antiquated they’re not even raised for military purposes.” 

“Fascinating” Thranduil said genuinely. “And what do you do with them otherwise? And what is this ‘hellycopter?’” 

“They’re used for farming” was the dour statement. “And glue. A helicopter is...like a very fast cart...but horseless and-” he cut himself off abruptly. “I don’t think you would understand it if I explained it thoroughly...what is your fastest transportation method here?”

Thranduil decided he did not want to know what ‘glue’ was.

“Horses are fast” he said calmly, ducking to avoid a low-hanging branch and tugging the reigns lightly. “Particularly those of the Rohirrim, and of course you have the Mearas but to tame one would be the fate of a lifetime” he paused. “An elven lifetime. Orcs use wargs...they are swifter than horses but have less stamina, and there’s always the risk of them turning on you. There were of course, the fell beasts the Nazgûl rode...they were somewhat like dragons, but thankfully there were but nine and we have seen naught of them in many an age.” 

“I would think nine dragon like creatures would be enough to contend with” Sephiroth muttered. 

“We’ve had but one true dragon in recent history” Thranduil replied, squeezing his heels to increase the pace slightly. “He was rather tiresome.” 

“They usually are” was the dry return.

“You are used to encountering such creatures” the Elf King observed. 

There was a long pause, and for a moment he thought that perhaps he wouldn’t get an answer.

“Yes” was the short reply, suddenly wary again. 

“Used to battle?”

“Yes.”

“Do you command a large army?”

Another stretch of wordless space, and Thranduil busied himself with leading them up the rise to the Halls.

“I never said that I commanded any army.”

Nodding at a sentry, the elf sighed.

“You did not have to. It’s in everything you are.”

A stable boy came out to take Tûrin as they came out of the towering beech trees to rest on the flat...packed earth before the massive, double gates marking the entry to what remained of Thranduil’s kingdom. 

“Yes.” 

Sliding hastily from the elk, his companion’s response was brief, but also heavy. Thranduil was more demure about the affair, but when he was standing on the ground once again, he turned to Sephiroth with an eyebrow raised.

“I need to know only one more thing” he said calmly. “Is that army a threat to me and my people?

Sephiroth’s shoulders seemed to slump for a moment, and he did not look at him...preferring to stare at the gates when he replied...his arms crossed over his chest.

“No...I don’t think so. Normally, I would say yes...but in this case, the distance is too great…”

“....I think this place is further from Gaia than the bottom of the sea is from the stars.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which the author imbibed heavily and gave forth a disgusting amount of purple prose.

Sephiroth was not partial to caves.

It wasn’t anything particularly personal; they just tended to be wet, dark, musty and uncomfortable. He’d had to sleep in a good many caves on reconnaissance missions, and his memories weren’t unpleasant but they weren’t exactly fantastic either. One had to be conscious of the presence of bats and whether or not you were going to wake up covered in guano. He’d never had that happen personally, but Genesis had. The memory of the smell and the redhead’s yells of rage was enough to deter him to a very thorough degree. And he liked to sleep on a comfortable bed if he could manage it.

Sephiroth was a Soldier, but he wasn’t devoid of partiality when it came to individual needs. He could run a mission sleeping on top of boulders if he had to, but he also enjoyed drinking brandy, watching TV on a large flat screen, and hot showers. He liked cotton T-shirts, filtered water and the occasional dumbapple if he could nick one off Angeal when he was looking the other way and a shipment came in from Gillian.

This cave was very different.

He wasn’t entirely sure if it was-officially- _called_ a cave...because Thranduil had called it a Hall. Structurally, it was more than a Hall...it seemed to be a network of caverns that had been carved meticulously away...inlaid with painstaking scrollwork in a language he did not recognize. If he were of a more appreciative mind, he might have been able to call the craftsmanship beautiful; there was nothing-as far as he was aware-on Midgar that could rival it. Much of the design seemed to circle the central focal of a coiled three; somewhat like tree roots but blended into the foundations-if caves did, indeed have foundations-so seamlessly it appeared that they had been formed that way.

Water was an ever-present feature; whether from the river he could faintly hear and occasionally see rushing below, or from a network of staggeringly steep...rushing falls that painted the walls here and there. It was guided by masterful sculpturing to plunge into hidden depths unseen. There was light as well, filtering in from the falls in diamondic, jewel-esque brilliance, or from carefully but subtly placed lanterns that rested in alcoves and gave forth a golden, warm luminescence. And again...there was the sense of otherworldly vitality...of watchfulness that was at once wild but also fiercely protective.

At the cave’s core-over a network of arcing, breathlessly steep bridges devoid of railings-was Thranduil’s throne. They passed by it but briefly, and the silver-haired Soldier received but a glimpse of it from afar. Sephiroth was instead led to the left...down a moss-laden postern path and through a yawning yet somehow graceful arch into yet another part of the cave network. Here, he was forced to stop and look. Seeming to comprehend his need to observe, Thranduil stepped to the side somewhat and said nothing as he drank in what was before him. It took a good amount of discipline not to stand and gawk like a hapless child, really. Because before him was a city...but it was a city unlike any other he had ever seen. Midgar was, to some degree, perpetually smoggy...full of noise and smoke-especially in the slums-not to mention the deafening roar that came from the reactors at all hours. Towns like Kalm and Gongaga had a rustic feel to them but they weren’t… _ethereal_.

And it was ethereal.

The metropolis itself was not so much a makeup of the aforementioned, but a network of alcoves and insets clearly designated and set aside for households, individuals, and families. The multitude of carvings made it difficult to see inside of them-along with various tapestries-but it was apparent that the residents slept and ate as a semi-unified community. The alcoves themselves were spaced generously apart...sometimes by many hundreds of feet. They ranged from below floor level to high up; almost to the roof of the cave and accessible via carefully carved but precariously narrow pathways.

There were, here and there, softly lit areas that existed solely for the purpose of sitting and perhaps eating. These were decorated with floor pillows and-oftentimes-the scattered book, instrument, or discarded, half-written missive. Somewhat sardonically, Sephiroth wondered _how_ in the _world_ anyone would feel safe leaving clearly valuable items out hither and thither, but the suspicions that existed in his world didn’t seem to apply to the realm he was currently in. Most of the dwellings seemed to be occupied at this point, which was logical since dusk was nigh. There was the soft murmur of voices and the occasional laugh, but no inkling of shouting or swearing...nothing raucous or overtly loud.

“You run a tight ship” Sephiroth commented at length.

For a moment there was silence, and he could sense mild confusion coming from Thranduil before a dry laugh dispelled the notion.

“This is not discipline _mellon_ ” was the amused reply. “‘Tis naught but how we live, and how we have lived for many years.” A dark, severe brow was leveled at the silver-haired General. “If you live long enough to see one of my parties, you might change your mind.”

'Culture' was not a word Shinra took very seriously.

Returning his attention to the fore without comment, Sephiroth reflected that there was no stringent identity when it came to traditionalism and militarism in Midgar. Wuati, of course, was an exception, and certain sects of the public had some events that they celebrated depending on the season, but such levity did not extend to Soldier or Shinra in general. One could not-realistically-sequester drills into anything ingrained in the concept of ‘culture’ even if he himself found it somewhat nostalgic and comforting. No...this was different than anything he’d come across before; it felt cleaner, less fractured, less driven by fear...more unified. And it was a careful, ancient unification; one that he couldn’t fathom...even when he tried to the best of his ability. The silver-haired man still didn’t understand the sense of magic he was receiving from everything around him; it was hair-raisingly strange and yet somehow calming.

“We don’t have many guests” was the dry continuation.

Sephiroth blinked and watched as someone he assumed was a civilian, slipped out of one of the dwellings. Catching sight of Thranduil, they bowed low and murmured something that sounded like ‘here ill win’ before disappearing into the dark of another cavernous corridor with barely a whisper.

“Your accommodations will be further back-” Long, pale fingers were lifted and snapped twice. Immediately, there was a rustle of cloth and the distinct patter of shoes. Bemusedly, the General observed as a slight...man...with a comely face and earnest eyes practically flew around the corner they’d just circumvented in order to stand before his King. Forthwith, he bowed so very low Sephiroth was sincerely impressed at his ability to not fall over. Upon rising, he fixed Thranduil with such an adoring expression that Sephiroth immediately felt like he ought to be elsewhere. “-Meludir will see that you are settled.” A pause. “And then _Meludir_ will go straight back to his post elsewhere, and not lollygag about listening in on any potential conversations...am I correct?”

 _”Ai_ my Lord!” ‘Meludir’ exclaimed. “I didn’t mean to listen in, I simply came upon-”

“-Yes, of course, how very convenient for you” Thranduil interrupted in a voice that was both exasperated and fond. “The hour is late, however, and while I am sure that it is a fascinating tale, I think we could all use some rest after today’s…” icy blue eyes slid Sephiroth’s way before looking over the younger man’s shoulder. “...Excitement.”

“Of course” was the enthusiastic response. “If you’ll come with me this way _mellon nîn._ ”

“Good-night, Sephiroth” was the called missive as the aforementioned individual was forced to give up decorum in order to hasten after the-apparently-extremely swift-footed Meludir. “Try not to wander...or you may find yourself wandering into a dungeon. And then I should have to keep you there.”

 _“Hîr vuin”_ was the chortled comment at his shoulder once they were out of earshot. “He likes to be scary.”

“You called me a melon” Sephiroth replied flatly, choosing to ignore the previous statement as he did not find Thranduil the least bit ‘scary.’

 _”Mellon”_ was the amused reply as they ducked under a tassled hanging and down a winding, dimly lit passage. “It means ‘friend.’”

“But I am not your friend” the silver-haired man replied. “You don’t even know me.”

“Oh” was the half-snorted, half sardonic response. “You humans and your technicalities.” Meludir gestured for him to be careful of a step upwards before throwing him a blinding smile that made him very tense and suspicious. “Our guests are friends; it’s not so very complicated. I suppose if you should get thrown in a dungeon, I would still call you a friend, because you are here.”

“Are you not human?” Sephiroth demanded.

At this Meludir paused and seemed somewhat flabbergasted. He recovered quickly however, and this time the look that the General was given was gentle.

“ _Ai_ , you are from very far away” was the soft return. Parting yet another tapestry, Meludir gestured definitively into what appeared to be a chamber of sorts. “No, I am not human. I am an elf. We are all elven.”

“And what makes an...elf so different from a human?” the silver-haired man pressed.

Meludir chuckled.

“Well...these, of course” was the cheerful reply as the...elf pushed back his hair to reveal his pointed ears. The attendant then smirked. “And I am five hundred and forty five years old.” When Sephiroth found himself unable to reply, Meludir’s smile widened. “I am actually quite young, you know. _Erain Thranduil_ is over six thousand years old.” A frown. “Well, so we estimate, he won’t say, and it’s rude to ask.”

“Six thousand?” Sephiroth echoed dumbly.

“Yes, give or take a few decades I suppose” Meludir hummed pleasantly as he turned to walk towards the exit. “I trust you will be comfortable. Perhaps we shall talk some more tomorrow, but the hour is, as my Lord said, late. Fear not! I shan’t grow old in my waiting.” Tucking his ears back into his hair, Meludir favored the General with a cheerful smile. “Goodnight, _mellon nîn.”_

As quickly as he had come, he was gone. The only indication he had led the General there in the first place was the fluttering of the tapestry, which quivered briefly in his wake. The silver-haired Soldier took a few minutes to attempt to wrap his mind around what he’d been told, but it was nearly impossible. Extended lifespans applied to those injected with mako, it was true; but most Soldiers took retirement when Shinra offered it. Retirement equated to a tapering off of mako, and then the natural aging process resumed as per norm. This meant that most recruits lived into their nineties with relative ease. Five-hundred, let alone _six thousand_ , however, was unheard of. Sephiroth had not, of course, lived long enough to test any indicatives otherwise and he wasn’t entirely sure he would want to. He had no prejudices or misgivings against aging and death, even when applied to himself.

Pushing his thoughts to the side for the time being, Sephiroth took inventory of his surroundings.

The space Meludir had led him to was not so different from the semi-dwellings he had seen before. This one in particular was slightly higher than some, but not too far or too close to others. Through gaps in the sinter columns, he surmised that the cavern he was in was shared with perhaps fifteen or so similar dens. Surprisingly, he didn’t feel exposed or observed; merely a facet of that which surrounded him.

The area itself had few amenities. There was a simple low-lying bed pressed against the far wall; designed so it followed the slight concave of the stone. Despite its plain appearance, the craftsmanship of the frame was considerable, and the padding and blankets-when touched-were soft and would prove comfortable. A handwoven reed carpet overlaid much of the crudely semi-circular space and there was a brazier in the corner, presumably for warmth. Other than that, a small wooden desk squatted near the entrance; again low-lying, there was a single cushion provided for sitting before it, and a boat-esque brass oil lamp equipped with a single wick.

_”Le suilon!”_

Elves, or so they called themselves, were very good at being quiet. Sephrioth reflected upon this exasperatedly as one of the aforementioned sailed through the tapestry with what appeared to be bread, cheese, a decanter, a glass, and a bundle that was tucked under one arm. The elf in question placed the foodstuffs on the low desk and the bundle atop the bed before turning to him.

At first glance, the General would have presumed she was quite young, but it was impossible to truly tell now that he knew what the parameters of ‘young’ were in this world. Her hair was very fair-nearly the color of his own but not quite-and her eyes were a deep, midnight blue. Of her uniform he could guess very little in regards to her status; only that it was a pleated dress under a starchy white apron. If he were on Midgar he’d have assumed she was a shopkeeper or maid, but he knew assumptions would not aid him here.

 _”Nis a sogo”_ was the comment in a soft, willowy voice, a hand rising to point slender fingers at the desk. _”Hammad”_ another gesture, this time at the bed. When Sephiroth didn’t respond she merely smiled and nodded before ducking under the tapestry again. _”Olo vae!”_

The bundle turned out to be clothing.

Several sets of clothing, as it turned out. There were laced brown trousers, loose, light green, and also laced shirts, a pair of deerskin boots, socks, and some leather strips that Sephiroth supposed must be fore his hair. Looking down at his uniform, the General acknowledged that it was not the most practical thing to sleep in and still somewhat damp. Once he’d peeled himself out of it and donned what was given, he felt significantly better. Folding his leathers and tucking them away under the bed, the green-eyed First looked about-out of habit more than anything-for a place to mount Masamune before sliding sword, scabbard, and belt beneath the frame as well. Somewhat wryly, he acknowledged that perhaps he ought to feel glad that Hojo had shoved him into the mako tank clothed and fully armed.

The food was simpler than any fare he’d grown accustomed to since leaving the labs. It was well-made, however, and nothing like what Hojo had provided for him as a youth. The decanter held some sort of wine that-once tasted-was reminiscent of autumn; there were hints of butterscotch, allspice, cranberry, and a strange, nut-like flavor that he could only attribute to horse chestnuts. Such things, of course, might have different names where he was...but the flavors were strangely similar.

Sephiroth limited himself to a single glass; just one was enough to make him feel warm to the very tips of his extremities, he took careful note of its strength before setting it aside. No one returned to take his plate, but he supposed it didn’t matter, as it was clean regardless. The silver-haired Soldier ran through a few simple stretches before deciding that he was tired enough to be able to sleep. Extinguishing the oil lamp, the General crawled beneath the coverlets and, despite some anxiousness regarding his situation, managed to fall asleep.

* * *

Sephiroth woke to the sound of voices.

Specifically, he was pulled from sleep by the soft chatter of conversation and the smell of firesmoke. Throwing the covers from his person and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, the green-eyed First took a moment to reorient himself before rising. The den was illuminated with sunlight from whatever source provided it here and there in the caverns. Still, it was not direct; more of a golden-green with orange undertones.

Someone had been in to retrieve his plate and Sephiroth pretended not to be flabbergasted-and mildly appalled-that he had failed to wake upon the evident intrusion. Running a hand through his hair, he grimaced before acknowledging that it needed a proper wash, with proper product. He used an exorbitant amount of conditioner, and he was follicularly suffering without it. Most of the elves appeared to have long hair of ingloriously tidy proportions, including Thranduil, and that gave him some hope. Using one of the leather ties to roughly form a bun at the base of his neck, he left it for the time being to pull on his boots and exit his bedroom.

Here, too, there were several scattered sitting areas. The one closest to him was over an arcing, carven byway and down into a little hollow. There was indeed a fire going, but the smoke filtered upwards through a hole in the cavern ceiling that he assumed functioned as a ventilation shaft. The blaze itself was small and sunk further into the floor than the space around it; and there was a fair-haired, cheerful looking elf fanning the flames while five others knelt on the stone or lounged on cushions provided to them. Most of them appeared dressed for duty; he recognized their livery-save for one-as the guard he’d been pursued by the day before. All of their weapons were scattered in a pile a ways away from the pit, and one of them was handing out something that he assumed was food wrapped in a square shape with large green leaves.

_”Arduil vaer!”_

Cheerfulness, Sephiroth supposed, must be a cultural thing too.

It wasn’t the bravado-inundated exchange between his fellow Soldiers, however, nor was it the forced, overly optimistic tittering he witnessed amongst Midgar’s populace. Here it was softer...almost thoughtful in a way that he was unaccustomed to. The individual who had greeted him-he assumed it was a greeting, for all he knew he could have cursed him crosswise and he’d never have been the wiser-was tall and blonde, though he supposed he really ought to assume that most of the elves there were fair haired and sky-eyed. Lean...muscular...though that was nothing new either. The green-eyed First watched warily as his conversational companion rose from his cushion and proceeded to stride forward until they were nearly nose to nose.

Personal space was also-apparently-an anomaly.

“Did you sleep well _mellon-nin?_ ” this was asked in a rather thick but not unpleasant accent.

Shifting his weight from one leg to the other and backing up a bit, Sephiroth cleared his throat.

“I did, yes, thank you.”

For some reason that seemed to make the elf exorbitantly happy, and he turned to gibber nonsense at the gathered company over his shoulder, who also appeared to become ridiculously joyful and chattered back at him with varying, overly-excited comments that appeared to be questions. With a jolt, the General acknowledged that only some of them could speak English...if that was what it was called there. The individual before him must be the most linguistically efficient, or so he guessed.

“That is well” was the good-natured return. “My name is Thurinion, and this is Heriril, Aphedir, Mîlwen, and Cîlchon.” The last was said of the sole dark-haired elf in the company, and when Sephiroth looked questioningly at him, he grinned.

“I am visiting” Cîlchon declared breezily in broken English that was somehow much nicer sounding than eloquent English. “From Imladris.” A hand lifted long, dark locks. “Imladris, we have winter hair, almost all.” A pause. “Not Laurefindil.”

“There is nobody like Laurefindil” the one called Mîlwen agreed dreamily, propping her chin atop her hands. Aphedir looked suddenly greenly jealous but Sephiroth pretended not to notice.

“Lindir” the so dubbed Heriril interrupted before seeming to abruptly realize she did not know how to say what she was trying to. Instead, she waved a hand before touching her head. “Lindir light-haired...pretty.”

“Nobody particularly knowns Lindir’s full heritage, not even him” Thurinion countered, sounding stern. “And don’t let Lord Elrond catch you calling his attendant ‘pretty.’” Heriril blushed. “Glorfindel is a great warrior” Thurinion continued, turning back to the fire and gesturing for Sephiroth to sit with him. “He was returned from the Halls of Mandos.” The General supposed that his blank face must have indicated his complete and utter unrecognition of the name, because Thurinion went on. “It is where the spirits of our kin go when they are slain or Fade. Glorfindel’s spirit was pardoned and given early re-embodiment.”

“He rose from the dead” Sephiroth abbreviated flatly. Thurinion looked pensive for a moment.

 _”Ai_ , well, I suppose that would be a term, but not exactly.”

Sephiroth decided that some questions were best left unanswered.

“You are welcome to eat with us” Thurinion continued pleasantly, gesturing to the fire where Aphedir was stirring a kettle of sorts. “It’s meager fare, I’m afraid we've necessity to eat quickly and patrol soon.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

For someone who declared that his people’s bearing and stature was nothing but culture, Thranduil’s entrances seemed to clearly indicate otherwise. Sephrioth reflected upon this as the elves around him scrambled to their feet and bowed as their King swept across the narrow causeway and paused just as the other end, his expression impassive. He was wearing summer-colored robes of a yellow variety, which would have made anyone else look like a nanny with perhaps four score too many cats. Grudgingly, the General acknowledged that anyone who could make a crown of what appeared to be buttercups look formidable was likely rather formidable themselves. The fact that said buttercups were nestled among a sea of bristling thorns was negligible...they were still buttercups and Thranduil still wore them as if they were dozens of quivering yellow projectiles. The cutting manner in which the elf-King raised a knife-sharp brow did not lessen the effect.

_""Hîr vuin.""_

This was murmured, not in unison but in a scattered reverence by all gathered save for Sephiroth. However within that reverence was a kind of gentle adoration; a deep admiration and respect. One did not come by such respect through tyranny or cruelty. Sephiroth had seen such deference only in the warmasters of Wutaiin forces. They led with fear, yes, but their men fell before them not only because they had to, but because they trusted them. This situation was no different, if not more profound in the deep, abiding sense of kinship between Lord, land, and populace. Blinking slowly, the green-eyed man forced himself to accept the fact that while his life had been marred with obedience via tyranny, there was no such thing here. Cloister, perhaps, but not slavery.

"Good morrow" Thranduil continued in English. "I trust you will all be at your posts in a timely manner this morning." There were murmurs of assent, and for a minute the impassive mask on the elf ruler's visage slipped to reveal that which was an indulgent warmth. As quickly as it had come, the impression was gone, and when Sephiroth's captor turned to him, his expression was unreadable once more. "Our guest and I will break our fast together."

"It's not necessary" Sephiroth cut in...feeling as if he'd been somewhat excluded from his ability to choose.

Thranduil's smile was pleasant, but his eyes were cold...calculating.

"Ah, but it is" was the silky soft return. "I am not so foolish as to turn my gaze from you overlong _mellon-nin_. So, young one, you will come and dine with me. And then we shall go back out into the forest, you and I, and you will show me what you did to dispatch of those spiders so efficiently."

A part of him balked.

Not out of a sense of lost manhood, or a notion of retained pride. No, part of Sephiroth balked because he was unaccustomed to taking orders from anyone but his superiors and those that footed his paycheck. This was not that world, however, and he knew by now that doing other than what he was bid at the current moment would leave him full of arrows. And if not that, the shining sword at Thranduil's hip would gladly sing for him, or so he guessed.

"You will have to visit us again" Thurinion remarked, picking up his bow and quiver and taking a hasty bite of whatever was wrapped in those leaves. "It was good to meet you."

Finding himself unable to do anything but nod, Sephiroth did so and rose from in front of the fire to make his way towards the Elvenking. It was telling, too, that he posted no guards around him. Even the Wutaiins had their entourage, but not Thranduil. No, Thranduil was alone...but in his singularity he was wholly without doubt in his skillset. It was a statement, a deliberate one, to be sure; he would do well not to underestimate anyone here; but Thranduil most of all.

"Come" the subject of his ruminations said flatly. "We will eat."

"...And then we will fight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *the text mentions a 'boat like oil lamp with nothing but a wick' or something to that end-There's no other word for the diya, which is Indian in origin, and I can't really put Indian items in the Tolkien-verse.
> 
> but that is what I intended this lamp to represent  
> Translations:
> 
> Le suilon-I greet you  
> Nis a sogo-Food and drink, roughly. It's essentially the words 'food' 'and' 'drink'...un-acclimatized to Tolkiens grammatica for Sindarin.  
> Hammad-Clothing  
> Olo vae-Sweet dreams  
> Arduil vaer-Good morning
> 
> R&R


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which spiders are murdered and Thranduil is weirdly chatty.

‘Efficiency’, as it turned out, was really a polite abbreviation for _'massacre’_

Ducking to avoid a spray of putrid arachnidian blood, Thranduil pivoted before thrusting Amar upwards and behind...into the mess of legs that was the spider at his back. Menel he left in its sheath, as he had no real need for it, especially considering his company. Catching an incoming, clicking and hairy adversary with the heft of his blade, the Elvenking promptly righted it so it split his opponent straight down the middle before returning his attention to the fore. The Ruler of the Woodland Realm observed as Sephiroth came sailing by in a flash of silver. He was pursued by perhaps a dozen or so of Mirkwood’s largest and most vicious resident web-weavers. At this point, if it were anyone else Thranduil would have already stepped in. Instead, he merely watched with a grim sort of respect as the green-eyed human allowed the spiders to form a cloistered circle around him. 

They had their prey surrounded. 

Monstrous, sharp and venomous fangs dripped as the spiders hissed triumph to one another in their wicked, twisted tongue. Again, in different circumstances- _any other_ circumstances, really-Thranduil would have agreed with them. As it was, the silver-haired human’s stance was easy even as he crouched...alert and watchful. For every twitch of an appendage, every rattle of chiclerae, that lithe, impossibly powerful body shifted in response. He didn’t even have to look to sense his adversaries; it took elves centuries to develop such awareness. The King of the Woodland realm wasn’t entirely sure he could name more than a handful of Edain who could say the same. As the sea of hairy legs drew ever tighter ‘round the hapless ship that dared provoke them, Thranduil also acknowledged that very few of his men would hold such calm bearing if faced with the same. 

Movement. 

Movement inwards...at an almost blinding speed...too fast for human eyes to see it. Sephiroth, however, was prepared. That long...silver blade sang suddenly; metal and air collided to form an ominous hum that had the Elvenking’s blood curdling...because that song was dark. It was _murderous_ and hungry. Strangely luminescent green eyes burned with cold fire as the blade was swung upwards...as it circumvented the tide even as its owner dropped to his knees...as he spun it in a hissing, whirling circuit over his head ‘till it was naught but an iridescent...humming blur. Like the threshing of wheat, except it wasn’t wheat...it was numerous appendages; thoraxes, eyes and abdomens...a wave of necrotic hemoglobin and the stench of death was suddenly overwhelming. The spawn of Ungoliant barely had time to react...had naught to do but scream their agony to the skies until that too was silenced under the lethal rotation of a single blade... 

….Through it all, Sephiroth was silent. 

It was more than discipline. 

As the last, twitching carcass fell away to leave the silver-haired man in a circle of inky desecration, Thranduil forced himself to face the fact that Sephiroth was more mechanism than man. He was not of Manwë, of that he was certain...but neither was he a creation of Morgoth or Sauron. Left to his own devices or lead astray, however...he could be. Leaning down to swipe both sides of his blade on a scraggly patch of weak, desperately thirsty undergrowth, the Elvenking sheathed it once clean and stepped back to listen to the forest. As was usual with this particular stretch of woodland, there was the ever present sense of decay...of moldering. Now, however, there was also a sense of wariness...of watchfulness. Dol Guldur might be bereft of its original master...but he knew and was aware of Khamûl...and did not dismiss the great threat of Sauron’s most favored lieutenant. It would not fare well if they’d drawn his attention...however briefly. 

He needed Gandalf’s counsel. 

It took some measure of pride for Thranduil to admit this to himself. Truthfully, the decision also surprised him because in any other circumstances he’d have let someone of such destructive caliber rot in a dungeon. Sephiroth was a threat of cataclysmic proportions, but he did not feel driven to imprison him or throw him out. Such estrangement-he sensed-would not do the Woodland Realm any good, nor would it work in the favor of Arda in the long run. He did not know what the man before him was, but he wanted to understand him...perhaps offer him a place where he felt that he could be more forthcoming. Earning his trust would be difficult, especially since he was-with the pleasantries stripped away-already somewhat of a prisoner. That and the fact that the Elvenking was painfully aware that trust did not come easily to Sephiroth. He was disciplined, yes, but he didn’t know if the silver-haired man currently drenched in spider blood and looking terribly stern but also slightly-secretly-lost had ever truly had faith in someone else. 

It was something Oropher would have done. 

With a twinge in his chest at the thought of his _Adar_ , Thranduil wished suddenly that he was there...that he had not been slain...as so many of his loved ones had been slain...so he could seek his wisdom. Ever had his father been more temperate than he...ever was he more insightful...more forthcoming...gentler. Legolas ‘oft commented that if his grandfather were alive, perhaps the Kingdom would not have fallen into such a fearful...restless pall of dreadful anticipation. Thranduil was a hard ruler. Not unfair...but stern and cloistered because so much of his life was ferried on the wings of slaughter and loss. He had watched as the towers of Amon Lanc crumbled...been forced to observe...helpless, as the glittering spires of his beloved home were choked with blackness. Too much of his existence was a lesson in pain...in loss; and so he had grown afraid of openness...of forgiveness and levity. He had spoken to Sephiroth of their revels under the stars...but in truth it had been centuries since he’d felt safe enough to host one. And so it was that this little mercy felt a bit like laying himself bare before the glittering heft of that unforgiving sword strapped to Sephiroth’s waist. 

Yet somehow...he could not feel that he was wrong in doing so.

Thranduil would seek Gandalf’s counsel and hear what he had to say...even if he did not always, in the end, agree with everything that came out of the gray wizard’s mouth. He had still not entirely forgiven the Istar for the whole debacle with Smaug and his hand in so many things regarding dwarves and hobbits. If he thought about it too long he became very grumpy and so he strove not to most of the time. It was hard enough to run a swiftly dwindling kingdom without thinking on old grudges. And he was not so remiss as to ignore the fact that he had had some hand in the complication of it all...that if he had, perhaps, been more flexible...more willing to listen...to sympathize, then perhaps there would not have been so much death at the end of everything. He had not, however, forgotten the fact that he had not been wrong in his statements regarding Thorin and the King’s Jewel. Brash he might be...cold he might be...but insightful he was as well.

And so Thranduil took some comfort in the truth that despite the fact that Sephiroth was dangerous, he did not sense arrogance, nor pride, nor terrible cruelty. He was powerful, yes...and disciplined; hardened by war and the need to command when he himself was barely of the age when most elves would be allowed to look in the direction of a weapon. If he was of the Rohirrim or the men of Gondor, he might have been old enough to command a battalion or oversee an encampment, but even that took some measure of status...of being noble-born, well read and publicly known. No...Sephiroth was a summation of all that he had ever known...but not very much else. Something in him softened to that...grew gentle in the face of such newness...because even with a multitude of deaths on his head...Sephiroth was innocent. 

And he was looking at him. 

It was subtle...more of a peeking through his hair...really, and Thranduil felt some measure of amusement suffuse him as he acknowledged the fact. Those green eyes were calculating and guarded, yes, but something moved behind that ironclad emotionlessness...like a shadow. It whispered behind his sclera...bright and shimmering and deep as the emerald of those glowing irises. It took the King of The Woodland realm a moment to realise that it was apprehension...and not of a fearful sort...not really. No, there was something in Sephiroth that had tensed...immediately, upon the culmination of the skirmish. The silver-haired man was expectant...expectant in a way that reminded him a little bit of Legolas when he was an elfling and he came upon him having squashed a butterfly. It was an accident, of course-Thranduil was fairly sure he’d sat on it without looking-but when the Elvenking rounded the corner he’d found his _ion_ kneeling before him...his hands cupped in his lap with the subject of his-perceived-crimes laid flat against his palms. 

_’Adar!’_ he’d cried. _’Adar, goheno nin!’_

And in those shimmering blue eyes was the same expectation he saw now...the same terrible assumption that Thranduil would look...that he would look at what was done and see nothing but that which had been done...see nothing but a killer.

A monster.

Exhaling in a quiet rush, Thranduil resisted against the upturn of his lips that wanted to slowly but fondly form. Because it was so different...but it was not so different. And such a thing was not simple...it was not borne from ease, but from a terrible life filled with terrible things. So when he opened his mouth it was with the knowledge that this would take time...that it would take patience...but he had lived long and knew patience...even if in the past he had not been so patient. 

“You fought well, _mellon-nin_.” 

Sephiroth jerked. Really, he recoiled slightly and looked at him as if he’d suddenly sprouted antlers. The expression was subtle, of course, but still there and again Thranduil had to force himself not to laugh because it was really too amusing at this point. He did not laugh, however, and merely tilted his head before letting his eyes roam over the carcasses before him idly. They would have to burn them, of course, decorum demanded that they do so, but that could wait for the moment. His companion cleared his throat.

“We’re taught it” was the slightly hoarse reply. “In basic training, rotational and translational movement.” 

“It is a good tactic” the Elvenking commented breezily, plucking at his sleeve. “Risky, however, for those untrained.” Pausing and taking but a moment to decide, he continued. “Would you be open to teaching my men?” 

If possible, the silver-haired man now looked even more confused. He recovered swiftly, however. 

“I would be” was the wary response. “But it would take time.” Sephiroth hesitated before seeming to reconsider his statement. “I suppose, however, that isn’t an object of concern here.” 

“Not for elves, no” Thranduil replied, unable to stop amusement from coloring his tone at this point. He sobered somewhat. “But these are dark times; the more we learn to protect ourselves the better.” When there was no response to this, he gestured around them. “We must burn these; gather what deadfall you can and I will do the same.” 

It was grim work.

Grim...but necessary. The less the enemy knew of their methods of dispatch, the more advantage they had in later battles. There was very little to tell from the dismemberment that surrounded them...but he felt better knowing that he’d done what little he could to treat his forest well...even if the forest itself was unwell and diseased. They worked silently but efficiently; only once did the Elvenking witness his companion step towards a tree with a decided look on his face...but the moment he did he looked suddenly gravely ill. This too was interesting but Thranduil did not press the topic for the moment...deciding that there was enough to ruminate over, given the circumstances. Instead, he focused moresoe on their task and soon the carcasses of their enemies had formed a towering blaze whose smoky heights still did not penetrate the ever-growing darkness of his ailing forest. 

“I do not trust you with my men easily.” 

The statement was surprising, even to himself. Thranduil ignored the unease that twisted within him as the words spilled from his mouth. Instead, he focused on dragging a gored thorax to the flames as Sephiroth paused-arms laden with brush-and appeared to consider what he’d said. 

“I understand.” 

This was said flatly, devoid of inflection. 

“Do you?” the Elvenking muttered, unable to keep bitterness from seeping into his tone. 

“Yes.” This time, the silver-haired man’s tone was hard, and the _ellon_ lifted his head to find those startlingly green eyes level with his...the visage they glittered out of grimly honest in its bearing. “It’s difficult to train your men” Sephiroth continued in the same, oddly fierce but somehow deadpan vocalization. “It is more difficult, and requires far more honor to acquiesce to the fact that even with countless battles won...you still have more to learn.” 

“You know arrogance” Thranduil said after a moment, throwing the last of what remained of the spiders into the fire before standing upright. When his companion said nothing, he pressed him. “Or you’ve known it in another.” 

For a few long stretches of time, Sephiroth didn’t reply and the King of the Woodland realm busied himself with checking their surroundings. They were alone...for now, but he could not say for how much longer if they remained. Both of them needed a wash, and perhaps a good meal. He’d insisted on travelling with horses, but they were at least a mile away-needlessly involving them in battle wasn’t only senseless, it was cruel-and it would take them some time to get to them, and then longer to return to the Halls. Midday was upon them, and he doubted they would make it back before dusk. 

“I’ve known men who gave themselves to the concept of competition” Sephiroth finally commented, watching the flames. “Even when there was none given in return.” Another pause, and when the swordsman spoke again, it was through gritted teeth. “..When the only thing asked was a small _modicum_ of respect; when respect was given but not returned, or returned with derision and correction or dismissal of everything said...as if all proffered was but a mockery; distasteful or misaligned. As if I _asked_ for this-” 

He broke off and turned away. 

“Some people are given to pettiness” Thranduil remarked at length. “But it’s usually because they are accustomed to belittlement.” 

“There was no such belittlement among my men” was the tight response. “Or among the others, it’s not done in Soldier, we don’t have time for it.” 

“Belittlement does not begin in service” the Elvenking replied wearily. “Oftentimes, it begins at home.” When no counter argument was forthcoming, he sighed. “Come, we’ve a ways to go to the horses.” Again...the Edain-or at least partly Edain-was silent, but it was a thoughtful silence. They began the trek back to their steeds wordlessly, but it was not an uncomfortable sort of wordlessness. There was no sense of camaraderie, of course, it was too soon...but it wasn’t tense enough to cut with a dirk, as it oftentimes felt. “You mentioned Soldier” Thranduil ventured at length. “...Is that the name of your...battalion?”

“It was the given name to all men in service to the company I work-” Sephiroth hesitated, an unsure expression on his face as he stepped over a log. “ _-Worked_ for.” 

“...And did you enjoy it?” when he received a confused look in response, Thranduil elaborated. “Service” he prompted. “Did you enjoy it?” 

“I was raised for it” was the once-again toneless reply. “It was never about choice for me...it was duty.” 

“But you were a figurehead” Thranduil surmised keenly. “Surely some status-”

“- _Status_ , where I come from, comes at the price of freedom. And I have never had freedom.” There was a distant whinny and emerald eyes cut in the direction of the sound. “‘Status’ is just another way of defining servitude.” 

It explained some of it. 

At the very least, it explained his prowess...even if it was disturbing. The only race bred solely for battle on Arda were that of orcs..but Sephiroth was no orc. Neither, however, was he someone who could boast of the niceties of a good upbringing...of compassion and kindness. Mercy...yes, but mercy was different than kindness...at least on a combative scale. Following orders was a thing separate from loyalty, and while the Elvenking did not doubt his companion’s steadfastness to his cause, he did know that there were different kinds of loyalty...some of them less willing than others. They had made it back to the horses by then, and Thranduil waited for Sephiroth to arrange himself in the saddle before swinging up onto his own mount. The way before them was clear...at least for now...and if good fortune was upon them, it would remain that way. 

“You said that these are dark times” Sephiroth supplied when they had ridden for some time. “Is it to do with the...evil you mentioned, before?” 

“Yes” Thranduil said heavily, nudging his steed with his heels to navigate a wide turn. “But it is an old evil...one we have contended with before...and then the maker of such evil’s evil, before that.” 

“It sounds like a long tale” the silver-haired man hedged, and the Elvenking hid his smile. 

And so Thranduil told him. 

He told him of Arda...of the making of Arda. He spoke of Ilúvatar and Manwë...of the Ainur and the Valar. The King of the Woodland realm told his companion an abbreviated version of the discord of Morgoth...of Telperion and Laurelin...of the Silmarils ...of the struggles of elf, man, and dwarf against the powers that had been...of Sauron and his long ago place as Lieutenant pledged to the Darkness that had once ruled the world. He spoke of Ondolindë...of Angband and of Valariandë...subjects that he did not bring forth willingly...even to those closest to him. There was mention of Dagorlad.., though he did not bring up the subject of his father...or much of his personal life...or the One Ring. It was a tale he had heard many times, and so he told it as best he could...with the knowledge he possessed. He spoke until his voice was hoarse, until the sun had descended from its high perch in the sky somewhat and his companion was silent again. He allowed it...for it was much to absorb...let alone believe. 

“It sounds like Morgoth simply wanted to go his own way” Sephiroth remarked at length. 

“There are many, many technicalities in the long tale of Arda” Thranduil agreed readily. “Many reasons, many of them great, on all sides for those who did what needed to be done...or undone. I could not tell you why things turned out the way they were...only the reasons why I fight for what I do...why I protect those I rule over.” 

“...And why do you?”

“Because I have seen what Sauron and his minions have done to my people” the Elvenking said darkly. “I have known his darkness...I have seen the sickness it has wrought in my woods.” He closed his eyes. “...And I see it in my son...though he is softer than I...more like his _naneth_. ...His mother...who gave her very last breath to protect him...who died broken...bleeding and violated in a dungeon...far, far away from me. I felt her _fea_ flicker over the distance...felt it twist and cry out and then...finally, fade. She died in agony, in pain and suffering more terrible than most. And only because she was mine...and Sauron knew it...he made her suffer because he knew it would make me suffer.” Sephiroth seemed at a loss in terms of what to say, so he continued. “However, I understand too that Sauron was once called Mairon...that Morgoth was once Melkor. I understand that things might have been different if the Silmarils were never created...if my ancestors had never left Valinor...but these are things I cannot change...I can only do what I perceive is right...now, in this moment. Most of the tales I have told you are perceived as that...mere tales.”

“Not many have lived long enough, even among my people, to remember the years of yore...to recall the hard lessons we have learnt. And it is not a pleasant thing _to_ remember them...because in that rememberance you know what you wish you could have done differently...who you could have saved...who you might have spared...what might have been otherwise. ‘Tis not easy...acknowledging the fact that you could be wrong...that perhaps this is just a single manner in which the pendulum of Fate has swung...but you must bear it all the same...you must embrace the tapestries of Time as Vaire weaves them from our choices...from our deeds. Otherwise you will never live in peace, or you’ll go mad. And even with such things in mind there is still the risk of madness...when you have enough years behind you.” 

Slowing his horse, he looked steadily at his charge. 

“I do not trust you” he continued honestly. “Not yet. I am not a trusting individual...nor am I given to excess kindness. I did not tell you these things because I wish to confide in you. I told you because you know nothing of this world...and if you are to understand what you might face, you must know the history behind it...and because I sense that you would not be alarmed or cowed by what you’ve heard, I think you’ve seen enough to absorb this and make of it what you will without using it against me, or against yourself...however unwittingly. But I do want you to know that training my men is a choice, and not an obligation. You are not my slave...your are not my ward, or my charge...but I must keep watch over you...because there is always the risk to my people. Not because you are not strong; but because you are _very_ strong, and there are those in this world who would use that strength for ill.” 

“I understand” was the response...open for once. The Elvenking’s horse whickered gently in the darkened silence of the woodland. “I think…” Sephiroth said slowly. “That to not understand and value the gravity of both sides would be a failure of foresight.”

“There are many who would disagree with you” Thranduil said grimly. “Most, in fact, would disagree with you...they would see it as weakness.” 

“If seeing and valuing both sides is weakness” Sephiroth muttered. “Then I don’t want to be strong.” 

Thranduil was abruptly struck with the notion that he needed a new War General, but he brushed the thought to the side. Clearing his throat, the elvenking opened his mouth. 

“With that said” he replied…

“...With that said...I think you are stronger than you give yourself credit for, _mellon-nin.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'll be toning down our resident elf-king's nattering from here on out but the characters kind of took control in this one. I watched all three Hobbit movies today, and it made me rather broody.  
> Edit: I would love to hear any thoughts any readers have on the pairing, because right now I'm a bit up in the air regarding it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sephiroth adjusts to life in the Greenwood and meets someone new.

The trees were talking to him. 

Sitting in a glade not far, but far away enough from the Halls that he didn’t feel suffocated, Sephiroth closed his eyes and let the murmurs of the forest swallow him. It wasn’t so much a form of speech...not really. Realistically, he could truly only compare it to a sense of communicative being. It was an impression of the experience of existence in a recurrent, vital echo throughout the recesses of his psyche. It didn’t feel malicious...not really, and the impression of it only became apparent during times when he was idle. 

The whispers in the back of his mind in Midgar-when compared to those in the Greenwood-seemed vicious in nature. 

When Sephiroth considered the nameless, faceless, formless and now-absent presence that had haunted him all his life, he didn’t know how he had thought it otherwise. It had come with a kind of thirst he never knew how to slake...save for in battle; and eventually even combat wasn’t fully enough to drive away that ravenous desire for violent glut. Talking to Hojo-or anyone, really-about it was out of the question. And so he’d born it...secret and insatiable inside himself...until now. He’d missed it initially, somewhat like an amputee misses a limb; but the longer he spent in the forest...the more he realized what a terrible weight it had been. 

Sephiroth was unaccustomed to friendliness. 

Camaraderie was different than friendliness; practiced long enough, it became habitual. There was an aura of unity in SOLDIER that he’d valued, but not much of a sense of unification...personification. Thranduil’s people were strongly unified, it was true...but they were also deeply spiritual, artistic and thoughtful. Sephiroth had learned a long time ago that thinking too hard when it came to Shinra was not a remotely safe path to take. One was wont to run into questions regarding morals, humanity and goals; that kind of thinking could quickly get you killed. Here, people were encouraged to observe, to ask questions, and to learn. It was an openness and forthrightness he was unaccustomed to, and he was not too proud to admit that it made him feel vulnerable at times. 

He’d taken Thranduil up on his offer. 

Training was-ultimately-easier said that done due to the language barrier. That and the King of the Woodland realm insisted on him taking a week or so to integrate himself into the community. This too was a thing more simply elucidated than implemented; while the General could understand the military-related aspects of elvish living, comprehending societal aspects was harder. Midgar was modern; if you could afford to live well it was also streamlined and aggressively progressive. The Greenwood was practically indigenous in its practices in comparison, and it certainly took some getting used to. 

Sephiroth quickly learned that the bathing pools-great, seemingly bottomless hot springs deep within the Halls-were mostly empty very late at night or early in the morning. There were no facilities in the caverns and so one was forced to relieve themselves outdoors and a ways away. Clothes were washed near the wine cellars in a shallow collective pool carved out of the bedrock from the waters of the ford. There, one had the option of using a pull-mule to pull a barrel in a circuit for greater quantities of linen, or choosing to wash by hand. Food was simple but wholesome, and everyone participated in aspects of hunting and gathering. 

Every aspect of the animal was valuable down to the bone. Sephiroth was somewhat conscious of the niceties of trapping, but using sections of gut to string instruments or make tallow was a foreign concept. Meat itself was a rarity, but it was explained to him that this wasn’t so much due to choice as it was due to the condition of the forest itself. It was unwise to consume anything that made its home in the blighted part of the forest, and as the sickness spread so too did food grow scarce. 

_“‘Tis not the same as the last blight.”_

Meludir had said this one evening next to the washing pool, wringing out what appeared to be a bedsheet. Sephiroth saw little of Thranduil’s personal attendant, but from what little he _did_ see, he could tell that he was never idle. They’d met by coincidence and exchanged obligatory pleasantries-which mostly involved Meludir asking about his day and Sephiroth weakly parroting his queries-before the silver-haired man voiced his curiosity regarding the forest. Clutching the offending sheet and staring at the fabric blindly for a moment, the King’s attendant went on. 

_“When the Dark Lord came to the forest initially it took us a long time to address the issue”_ was the regretful continuation. _“And even then it was not really the elves who were ultimately involved in his banishing.”_ Standing to hang the sheet, Meludir dragged another one out of the wicker basket at his feet before going on. _“There was a war of sorts at the time and my Lord was at odds in regards to whether it was our fight or not.”_

_“And was it?”_ Sephiroth had asked quietly, sitting back on his heels as the wash-mule rolled his shirt-tunic, they called it-about in the barrel. 

_“In some ways, yes”_ was the heavy reply. _“In many ways it was the battle of all good folk, but hiril vuin did not involve us until his hand was forced to some degree. It was a complicated battle and poorly coordinated due to indecision. We sustained heavy losses, some of them still linger.”_

_”Will you go to battle again if the sickness does not abate?”_

_”I don’t think so.”_ Meludir’s voice grew weary. _”Not unless it comes to the Greenwood. Ai, mellon...Thranduil told you of our ancient history, but in this day and age we are few and many of us are leaving.”_ Meludir’s visage was thrown into shadow abruptly...shadow intermingled with sunlight and despite possessing a face unmarred with wrinkles, he suddenly seemed ancient. _”You are so young”_ was the gentle continuation. _”And yet you know so much...but too late I fear. Our woods waste, Laurelindórenan’s brilliance dims...the sea calls ever louder. To come into this at the end of the days of the Eldar...I am sorry for it.”_

Blue eyes were hidden beneath milky lids as Sephiroth’s companion took a steadying breath. 

_”Ever is the world changed...when you live so long...but we do not change fast enough, not for this coming world. It wearies me, it makes my bones tired and my heart ache.”_ A laugh. _”And I am but young in comparison to many of my kin! I cannot imagine what they feel.”_ When Sephiroth said nothing he was graced again by indeterminably deep sapphire irises. _”We weren’t meant to come here”_ was the bitter comment. _“Certainly not in the manner that we did. And now, now we are learning why.”_

He couldn’t pretend to understand all of it. 

The history of the Eldar, as they called themselves, was unimaginably vast. When Sephiroth had heard it first from Thranduil he was moved to dismiss it, because it was so much to take in. It reminded him a little bit of the tales of Ancients...of the Cetra...though of course it was very different. It was useful to learn that there were other races in Arda...as Thranduil had called it. Normally he might have hastened to make contact with the world of Men...but he didn’t see the point in leaving the Greenwood forthwith. And as much as he wanted to deny it...it had started to grow on him. Life was peaceful...and if not peaceful, simple. Sephiroth had had so little of simplicity in his very short-compared to those he was surrounded with-existence, and he hadn’t realized how hungry he was for it until it was before him. 

He was beginning to accept that returning to Gaia was impossible. 

There was no mako here...no method of transplanar transport...if he wanted to put a name to whatever had befallen him. There was magic, but it was an old magic...possibly a lingering remnant from the ages that had come before the one he was in. Sephiroth sensed that to attempt to harness it in order to return would not bring any fruits of effort; it was too different and too wild for him to really control...and he’d never been savvy with materia or anything of the sort in the first place. More than that, those that possessed such magic in tales past appeared to have fallen victim to lust for power...or unwittingly used that power for ill. The former General was not necessarily a selfless man, but he also wasn’t cruel or careless. No good could come from trying to machinate a means to his own end here. 

This, of course, just left him at odds with the future. 

When it came to drills he was forced to lead with the aid of a translator, and that translator happened to be Thurinion. They got on well enough, even if the golden-haired elf was overly cheerful and sometimes painfully enthusiastic. Status in terms of rank in the Greenwood was vague, and it was explained to him that only Thranduil’s son, Legolas, had had any real separation of title...and even then only in times of war. A seasoned warrior could run drills beside a newly instated footsoldier and it mattered naught...only that things worked seamlessly and parallel with one another. A good portion of training took place above ground and out of the caves. 

When it came to sword maneuvers, there was a practice field not far from the entrance in a cloistered circle of stones...and field simulations, if he could call them that, were exercised in high _telain_ , or flets and among tree branches. Patrols ran a three day rotational gambit fringing the outskirts of Thranduil’s Kingdom...and these too were normally above ground. The necessity for elevation was disconcerting, initially, but Sephiroth was forced to admit that it provided better cover than being on the ground and provided a wider range of view...especially in woods as thick and dark as that of the Greenwood. 

He was always welcome. 

Shifting slightly, Sephiroth tipped his face up to catch the midday sun-what little of it could be had, anyway-before returning to his thoughts. Really, it was only his own shortcomings regarding sociability that were keeping him from forming any true attachments. He’d been close to his men, but it was a professional togetherness. Elves, quite clearly, were family to one another...and had no trouble showing it. They slept together on patrol...oftentimes close in order to provide warmth. 

There was no question of indecency, of impropriety even when personal space was compromised and the purity of it made him feel distant. Mîlwen had come up to him once when his watch was over and attempted to wrap him up in a blanket with herself and he’d practically yelped his refusal, to the great amusement of all others present. His immortal companions were eccentric, mischievous and whimsical, but so too were they steadfast and desperately loyal and he _admired_ it, but he did not know how to assimilate to it.. 

Thranduil was different. 

He was slow to notice it, surrounded as he always was with tasks. The folk of the Greenwood were ever happy to give him something to do and provide companionship for him while he did it, but there were still times when he was able to observe...and he observed that their King was apart from it. The ruler of the forest clearly did not need for the closeness that his people did...or perhaps he’d separated himself from it...a long time ago. Thranduil was alert and observant in ways that his people were not and he moved outside their circles unless necessity for governance required him to do so. 

Sephiroth supposed that this might have something to do with his age...and the fact that there were likely very few who could understand the vastness of mentality such age would bring with it. Still...much like him, Thranduil was dutiful and ever-present if needed, but he was not playfully free nor was he overly affectionate. Sometimes he would come and speak with Sephiroth in order to see how he was doing and-so he guessed-to try and get a feel for him, but otherwise the silver-haired man saw little of him once he was immersed in the world around him and rather regularly busy. 

_”Len suilon”_.

Sephiroth had enough of a grasp on Sindarin to understand that the greeting was formal. 

Formal...and wary. He’d long ago despaired of the fact that his senses simply weren’t trained to register immortal humanoids sneaking up on him, so he was surprised and yet not surprised that the speaker had managed to come upon him entirely unnoticed and with a hand on his bow. The area he’d chosen for solitude was somewhat elevated; it was to the left of the entrance to Thranduil’s halls...nearly over them...really, and overlooked the way to the immense gates that hid the realm of the elves of the Greenwood from wandering eyes. Not enough...however, to hide him from the individual before him. Almost immediately, he was struck with the resemblance he had to Thranduil...though he was not quite so tall...and his features were softer. His eyes were as blue as the sky and he held himself with some regality, but there was a gentleness to him that Thranduil did not possess. Still, his stance indicated that he was a warrior of no small skill, and the hand that was pressed to one of the twin daggers at his waist was adroit and clever. 

So this was Thranduil’s son. 

_”Mae l'ovannen”_ Sephiroth ventured haltingly, and Legolas-or so he guessed-cocked his head. 

“You speak Westron” the elf-King’s son ventured shortly, in a voice almost entirely without inflection...but different all the same, as it was with elves. Slowly, the General nodded. “How come you here?” 

“I’ve been here some time” Sephiroth replied. “Thranduil doesn’t seem to let strangers wander far.” 

At this, Legolas grimaced but at the same time relaxed. 

“You were passing through and he required you to stay” the prince ventured, a thin tone of exasperation coloring his voice.

“It’s a bit more than that” the former General said dryly. “But boiled down to the essentials, yes.” 

A study was made of his visage before his companion spoke again. 

“You are fair-faced, for an _Edain_ ” was the careful observation. “I have seen none of your ilk in all my years.” 

Sephiroth wanted to quite sharply ask why his aesthetic was so important in this world, but deemed it unwise. Appearance had always been a shallow-seeming topic to him, but clearly it meant much in the world of elves. He wondered, a little bit darkly, if he would have been greeted and treated so kindly if he were atrociously ugly. 

“You’re his son” he said instead. “You have the look of him.” 

Legolas’ lips twitched, as if he was amused, and his hand left the dagger at his waist. 

_”Thand”_ was the soft reply. “Such is both a blessing and a curse.” 

“He talks about you” Sephiroth continued, shifting until he was sitting cross legged. “Often, and fondly.” 

Something passed behind those eyes then...something painful, twisted, and apprehensive. 

“That is news to me” was the bitter return. “Ever have I fallen short of his favor.” Stepping carefully over a patch of clovers, the son of the Woodland King settled at his side, but not too close. “I confess that I came up here only to delay the announcement of my arrival. I’ve been gone a long time, and he has had time to grow bitter towards me.” A pause. “More bitter.” 

“You were among the Dúnedain” Sephiroth supplied, choosing to avoid familial issues for the moment...as he felt he could proffer very little counsel in that area. He knew nothing of royalty, but he imagined that societal pressures existed...even in the Greenwood. Father and son could not afford to be at odds, but nor could the Elvenking afford to coddle his only son. The former General was used to these standards...they had been applied to him far more harshly...and with far less recognition save for when the press demanded it. High profile public figures did not live easy social lives...let alone familial lives. “So it was mentioned.”

“Aye” was the response, accompanied with a smile and a spark of something secret, something joyful. “ _Adar_ bid me go there...and I didn’t think much would come of it, but I am glad that I went.” Legolas seemed to sober somewhat. “I bring news...though it is ill news, and I wish it were otherwise. I-”

There was a great scrambling behind them all of a sudden, and both of them were forced to stand and about-face in order to see what was coming. Such haste proved unnecessary, however, as their visitor was a lone _elleth_ , as the elves might say, apparently having come straight up the slope in order to see what was afoot. There was a shriek of unearthly proportions that caused both of them to wince. 

_”Hiril vuin Laiqalassë!”_ was the direct continuation after the shriek accompanied with a curtsey that was far too frantic to be polite. _”Man ceril?! Ledhana Adarlîn!!”_

_”Herunîn Nelladis”_ Legolas muttered, bowing from the waist up. _“Am man? Prestad?”_

Nelladis’ expression grew thoroughly thunderous. 

_”Hiril vuin”_ she continued, still respectful though her tone was clearly threatening. _”Ledhana **Adarlîn**_.” 

“Oh, very well” the prince grumbled, switching back to Westron. “Come...oh, what is your name?” 

“Sephiroth” the so-named individual said dryly. 

“Sephiroth” Legolas continued as if testing it out. “Well, come with me, perhaps my father will be more merciful if there are guests present.” 

Legolas was a talker. 

Not in an unpleasant way, merely in a way wholly unlike his sire. He spoke of idle things...of the trees...of the land outside the Greenwood. If the former General understood Silvan culture correctly, it was rare for them to venture outside their beloved homeland; by all accounts, Thranduil’s son was very well traveled in comparison. He had a great love for all things natural; for the ‘singing brook’ as he called it, for earth and sky and air. Legolas was a lover of all things free of fetters and it was apparent in his nature. How he had come by such nature, he didn’t know, especially in consideration of his upbringing. 

His return was welcome. 

Welcome...and a surprise. The guards posted at the entrance to the Halls bowed low but exclaimed joyfully at the sight of the prince. There was less deference than with Thranduil...less restraint and far more indulgence. He was their future, Sephiroth realized with a start...their future personified, so of course they would love him. As it was, Legolas treated each person who ventured to speak with them with the same careful consideration. They were in a hurry, so they didn’t stop to talk, but he still paid attention. Despite the fact that he had no knowledge regarding monarchy, the silver-haired man was not too blind to admit that Legolas would be a good King. 

Still...as blue eyes looked at stony ceilings and cloistered corners with apprehension and claustrophobia...Sephiroth was not entirely sure he would be a happy one. 

Thranduil was seated atop his throne when they began to ascend the steps to the antlered chair, but the minute he caught sight of Legolas the Woodland King abandoned his post so he could meet his son at the dias and kiss his cheeks. Sephiroth stepped back somewhat...feeling as if he had no place in such a reunion. Father and son spoke quietly in Sindarin to one another; too low and too fast for his-at present-limited translation skills to keep up with. After some time, Thranduil gestured to Sephiroth, who pretended not to notice, and both elves switched abruptly to Westron. 

“Sephiroth is, for now, our guest” the King of the Greenwood, declared, returning to his throne while they remained on the dais. Crossing one leg over the other, he leaned forward expectantly. 

“Forgive me, _Adar_ ” Legolas said quietly. “But your definitions of ‘guest’ are often questionable and up to interpretation.” 

“I understand that” was the gentle return, and the younger elf looked at his sire in surprise. “ _Ai_ Legolas, do you think you are the only person capable of growth in this? I know my wrongs, but I have every right to be cautious. Sephiroth comes from very far away, he has vast military knowledge, and he dispatched of the network of spiders Southeast in less than five minutes versus our five years.” 

“You did?” Legolas queried, looking astonished. When he was offered nothing but a nod, he appeared to reconsider his words. “I suppose you might have good reason.” He turned to the former General. “Where do you hail from?” 

Somewhat belatedly, Sephiroth acknowledged that this was a question Thranduil hadn’t exactly put to him yet. 

“I come from a place called Gaia” he answered. “And I live in a city called Midgar.” 

“These names are foreign to me, and I have studied Arda’s history extensively” Legolas murmured. 

“I too, have never heard of such places” Thranduil mused, eyeing Sephiroth keenly. For a moment, he feared he might pursue to the topic, which would only cause greater dissatisfaction, but the Elvenking redirected his focus upon his son. “You said you had news.” 

“Ill news” the younger _ellon_ muttered. “There are whispers of Darkness stirring in Middle Earth” he continued after a moment. “Familiar Darkness. Aragorn recently went to retrieve the creature known as Gollum, and I believe he will make his way here once he has captured him.” A brief hesitation. “He says that once he does find the creature, he will arrange for Mithrandir to meet with him here, for whatever good it will do.” 

“Ill news and odd news” Thranduil remarked after a moment, seemingly to himself. “But we knew that Sauron was not destroyed...merely diminished.” A pause and long fingers flexed against the armrests of the antlered throne. “And what does Gandalf the Grey intend to do to the creature here?” 

“Question him” was the bewildered response. “I know not how; from what I know of those who have encountered him before, he is rightly incoherent. More than that he is twisted...corrupted by that which he held to himself for so many years. I say it is only folly to bring him here.” A shake of a blond head. “And how can something that amounted to such a little creature...even before his undoing...aid us in our strife against such an old enemy?” 

“Sometimes” Sephiroth said shortly. “It is the things you doubt the most that give forth the most insight.” 

Blue eyes regarded him but a moment, though they were considering and not mocking. 

“Mithrandir would say similar things” Legolas murmured. 

“Go” Thranduil said abruptly, waving at them. “I must think on this.” They had both turned to walk away when he spoke again. “Legolas, _mae tollen na mar, ionneg. Glass nín le.”_

Sephiroth did not have to ask to know that what was said was meaningful, for Legolas smiled...and it was both relieved, softly sad, and deeply grateful. If he had paid attention a minute longer, he would have seen Thranduil’s gaze shift then to him…

...and he would have seen fondness there as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: There may be some grammatical errors but there shouldn't be too many. I feel like I'm kind of taking this as it comes, there's no direct...direction for the plot right now; though I am somewhat following some aspects of canon, they may not be immediately consistent or exact to Tolkien's chronology. I wanted to address the chatty trees more in this chapter but alas, such was not this chapter's fate; perhaps the next chapter.  
> Some waffling facts: The whole mule-barrel washing idealism is from Beauty and the Beast (the newer one), yes. I actually looked for a reference when I saw it in the movie, but as far as I know its a semi-original concept in terms of Disney. HOWEVER, if you know what its called then feel free to educate me because I'm interested in the painfully mundane; including washing clothes with donkeys.  
> Translations:  
> -Hiril vuin Laiqalassë!*...”Man ceril?! Ledhana Adarlîn!!-My Lord Legolas!* What are you doing?! Go and see your father!"  
> -Herunîn Nelladis....Am man? Prestad?-My Lady Nelladis...Why? Is there trouble?  
> -mae tollen na mar, ionneg. Glass nín le-Welcome home, my son. It is my joy to see you.  
> *'Laiqalassë' would be Legolas' name in Quenyan and highly formal. Nelladis used it not to be formal but to be stern. Kind of when a parent calls you by your first, last, and middle name. Nelladis is not his mother, but she is close to him due to his childhood, and much older than him, however I don't want to reveal too much about her right now just in case I'd need to mention it in the plot. It's not vitally important, just me being titchy about details.  
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Note from now-arnediad: I should have the next chapter up by tonight. Again...reposting, but not going into details about it. Moving on, so if you want to continue this literary journey, stay tuned!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a rather infamous character makes a singularly rare and singularly singular cameo appearance.

Legolas’ return was something unanticipated. 

Unanticipated, but not unwelcome; glancing surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye, Thranduil observed as his only son explained the fletching process to their guest with animated fervor. He’d come out to the training grounds to ask after the troops, but found himself dithering next to the archery range behind a large hawthorn tree. This he had done rather longer than he intended to, not that he’d intended to skulk behind greenery in the first place. 

The _ellon_ who had given him the report was long gone, and so he found himself with no excuse for his delay save for idle and somewhat fond curiosity. It was a pleasant day in truth; early Spring had run its course and it was growing warmer. The ElvenKing was not overtly partial to any season, but the subjects of trade and planting were things to be appreciative of, and the people were happier come Summer and as a result, so was he. 

They were a strange pair. 

Observing as Sephiroth followed Legolas’ movements along the fletch with his own knife, Thranduil acknowledged that it was a friendship formed from necessity and little else. His son was an expert in long range combat and their guest was versed in swordplay that was practically unparalleled in this Age of Middle Earth. Both were military; and thusly both were capable of acknowledging the benefits of learning from one another. Still...there was some sense of shared cognizance between them. Not one of sorrow, but perhaps that of expectation. 

Narrowing his eyes, the ruler of what remained of the Greenwood somewhat bitterly acknowledged that the task-even the not-yet assumed task-of ruling a Kingdom was not an easy one. Legolas did not want the crown, this much he knew, and it pained him. The agony of it wasn’t so much obligational as it was centric to the fact that his son would be a good ruler. In time, Thranduil was fairly certain that he would be a better ruler than he had ever been or would ever be. 

Likewise, the ElvenKing did not think that Sephiroth had basked in the attention his station had given him. Thranduil was not going to pretend to understand the societal constructs of a world-perhaps even a universe-completely separate from his own. He did, however, comprehend the immense pressure of possessing high social status; status that came with a position you took pride in due to the responsibilities involved. 

He himself had been eager to take on the Kingship in his youth...but it had come at a cost too high for him to appreciate it in the end. Thranduil would give up his crown, his claim to the throne and all other sovereign titles, possessions, and niceties to have his _Adar_ back. It was not worth losing him in the Battle of Dagorlad...and there were days when he feared that Legolas might lose him the same way and have to live with the same regrets. 

“ _Adar_ , your crown is so large it gives you away instantly.” 

His son had pitched his voice so that it crossed the space between them easily. Feeling slightly amused-and in no small measure caught out-the King of the Woodland Realm ducked away from his hidden observational point and stepped out onto the practice ground with as much dignity as he could muster. Legolas had stood, but Sephiroth remained on the ground studying the fletching of his arrow. Sky-blue eyes observed him with a fondness that was at once exasperated and a little bit weary. It occurred to him, though briefly, that such weariness had not been a facet of his son until quite recently. 

“Forgive an old ellon for his nosiness” Thranduil said smoothly, tucking his arms into his sleeves.

Legolas looked-if possible-even more unimpressed. 

*” _Aduadar_ was three times as old as you and never once did you catch anyone calling him ‘elderly.’”

The Woodland King was hard-pressed not to point out that his _Adar_ had quite often and frequently informed him of his apparently very advanced age. Moreover, there were times when Oropher did so to a degree that made it seem as if he would drop dead that very second if Thranduil did not do as he was told. Upon further rumination, it occurred to him that that was no different from how he treated Legolas at times. The knowledge that he had adopted some of the habits of his sire was both disturbing and bizarrely comforting. 

“I have changed my mind” Legolas declared. “You’ve gone spare in your old age, I agree.” 

This statement captured Sephiroth’s attention in the sense that he stilled and shot Thranduil a look that was clearly gauging his reaction. The situation was now too humorously strange for the Ruler of the Greenwood to take seriously anymore, so when he laughed it was with the knowledge that in this, he was defeated. 

“You could not find a better instructor when it comes to fletching” he remarked instead of pursuing the comment regarding the degradation of his mentality. “How do you find it?” 

“It’s not something we’re taught during training” Sephiroth muttered around a feather caught between his teeth, his fingers and paring knife working on another. 

Seeming to just notice this, Legolas yelped before snatching it away from the offending mandibles. The owner of said mandibles proceeded to look somewhere between indignant and poleaxed; such an expression only deepened in its bewilderness when he was tapped smartly across the nose with said feather. 

_”Avo”_ Legolas groused. Thranduil was-yet again-forced to struggle to maintain some level of decorum that was not inundated with amusement as his son examined the feather with a morose expression. _”Ai”_ he lamented. “It’s ruined.” 

Sephiroth sneezed.

“You’ve mentioned weapons unknown to us” the King of the Woodland realm commented amusedly but marked when the green-eyed _edain_ stilled and looked wary. “Do you think you could fashion them here?” 

“I do not think you would want me to” was the dark response. 

“Why not?” Legolas asked curiously. “Surely it might give us an advantage.” 

The chuckle that followed his son’s statement was so black it was nearly a physical thing. 

“Yes, I could fashion them, though not to the degree of professionalism as a weaponsmith. They would be crude, but effective” Sephiroth continued. “Weapons from my world, for most men, are long range.” A gesture at the arrows they were fletching. “But they use metal spheres called bullets and not arrows. They take moments to reload and some are automatic; meaning that they do not require reload until many-sometimes dozens-of bullets are fired.” 

Leaning forward, a grim expression on his too-handsome-to-be-human visage, Sephiroth went on. 

“Imagine a line of men taken down in _seconds_ , not minutes. They die so quickly they do not have the time to scream and if they do it is drowned in the roar of more gunfire. Death is swift, impersonal. You don’t stop to consider your headcount until you have years in service and by then it’s so high it doesn’t matter. I have killed the numbered population of your realm with weapons from my world thrice over...in _months_.” A sneer, though subtle. “So no _Erain Thranduil_ , I do not think you want me to unleash the mechanized carnage of my world on yours. I do not think you would survive it.” 

To anyone less circumspect it would have been a grave threat.

And...really...it was not Thranduil’s own reasoning that forced him to be circumspect. He was, indeed, half-prepared-again-to throw Sephiroth in a dungeon and let him rot. Because while he might refuse to fashion such weapons now, there was no telling if he would change his mind if they fell out of sorts. Thranduil did not get along with people on the long term...not many in any case...he had more enemies than he had friends. And if the Enemy got his claws into the youth before him he was fairly sure they would all be doomed. The warm, temperate feeling of the glade bled out like a festering sound left to drain. Instead, the practice area felt too _exposed_ for his men to be training now...it felt watched and unwelcoming. Paranoia, familiar yet fierce rose to grip him by the throat and he opened his mouth to call for the guard-

_”-Hara.”_

The voice in question was familiar in the sense that its inflection was from a time he had not lived. Indeed, whenever Thranduil heard such an accent a shiver of unease dripped down his spine. There were few elves left, by his knowledge, that would have spoken Noldorian and Quenya enough to develop such specific speech modulations. In an age where the Eldar were already few and far between, such a statement was behemoth. Legolas was quiet and it was unlike him to be quiet. Blue eyes were staring over Thranduil’s shoulder with a mix of apprehension, curiosity, and distrust. There was the rustle of footfall over leaves and a body as tall-if not taller-than his own swept past him with a regal grace he had not seen since he was a young _ellon_. 

_Wild._

That was the first thing that came to Thranduil’s mind when he could fully see him. Because he was wild despite his bearing. It was impossible to tell if his garb had once been fair or foul, patched and carewarn as it was. At his waist was a strangely flattish, large, animal skin pack, along with a hip flask and hunting knife. He carried a bow that-while plain-was of fine make, and the sword strapped to his belt was equally nondescript but also of exceptional craftsmanship. Otherwise, at first glance, he would appear a beggar...or a wanderer. 

He was not a beggar. 

Those eyes were too old...grey and muddied in a way that seemed to hedge the brinks of insanity in a manner that was as playful as it was murderous. Likewise...he carried a ferality within him that was not even of the ilk of the elves of Mirkwood. Never were Thranduil’s people lauded for being overtly gracious or whimsical, but there was a difference between fierceness and a complete and utter absence of morality. Dark lashes fell to cover those stormcloud eyes and he swallowed as they did...felt something that had held him in thrall loose itself, but not entirely. That skin was darker than most elves of the Third Age...though he did not fail to note the horrible burns on the palms of those long-fingered hands either. Like a river of snarled onyx...his hair...tumbling over his shoulders wild and unfettered by tie or care. His features were keenly fey...more fey even than Glorfindel and they made him _cold_ because such feyness was only wrought in the Springtime of Arda...in ages long gone and separated by seas and sunken lands. 

The Sons of Fëanor were unparalleled in their ability to be powerfully present. 

Macalaurë-if he guessed aright, and this was indeed the famed Maglor...Kinslayer and betrayer-was no different. Even as Legolas’ hand drifted to his bow the Woodland King flicked his own in a dismissive gesture. This was not a battle, if engaged, that they could win. A cruel mouth twitched before spreading into a smile that was at once horribly beautiful and sickeningly sad. An expressive visage...shockingly honest in comparison with the discipline with which many of the Eldar held for themselves in the current Age. A raven head tilted and the gesture was both predatory and distinctly lackadaisical. Never had Thranduil before felt small before another of his kind...but here...now, he did. 

_”Hara”_ Maglor said again, but it was a measured comment...the words slow over cracked lips. 

“Kinslayer” Thranduil said flatly, and was relieved when his voice did not belie the level of his anxiety. Because was Maglor, son of Fëanor, come to _stay?!_ He could surely not explain that to his people, but he also surely could not detain him or try and drive him off without killing a significant amount of his subjects. 

_”Ada-”_ Legolas began, but the King of the Woodland realm gestured frantically for him to remain silent, and his eyes widened with confusion before he fell silent again...settled into an instinctive ‘at-attention’ stance. Sephiroth had risen from the ground and was looking at Maglor with no small measure of wariness. He too had adopted an attentive stance, but it was also subtly challenging; Thranduil only recognized it as partially combative because he had seen it too many times...he doubted their impromptu and very unwelcome guest would, but it was a risk...and he didn’t like it. 

“Your son” was the heavily inflected observation in thick Westron...again, slow...but not because of a lack of knowledge...more due to disuse of the voice behind it entirely. Still...it was melodious...deliberate as the bards of yore had been taught to be with both their speech and their song. “I know your face” was the meticulous continuation. “The ilk of it...from your kin...and Doriath...Elwë’s minions.” A coldness passed over that already-frigid visage. “Denied us...your ancestors did...refused us peace or recompense.” 

“I cannot answer for my forefathers” Thranduil replied. 

“Yet you adopt Thingol’s strategies” Maglor spat. “Hiding your fortress in the earth...afraid of your kin. You are _weak_ as Thingol was...I can see it in your eyes.” 

“You offer grave insult-” Legolas fumed but again, Thranduil bade him be silent by widening his eyes. 

The chuckle that echoed across the clearing in response was thick with scorn. 

“And what would you know of _insult_ , young one?” 

“-We need not quarrel” Thranduil interrupted. “As I have said, I do not answer for my forefathers, and I do not ask you to answer for your actions. I merely ask that you leave my kingdom, for we have no love nor benevolence for Kinslayers.”

The sneer he received at his comment was derisive and dismissive. 

“I need not your love nor your benevolence; I have come for one purpose and one purpose alone-”

-It happened too fast. 

Really, it happened _so_ fast that Thranduil was left blinking at thin air where their guest had previously been standing. It took him a few moments to gather his bearings, and when he did he could see that Legolas looked just as perplexed as he did. Perplexed, and slightly alarmed, because Sephiroth was currently hanging by the neck from the hand of a Kinslayer, who was holding him against an oak tree like it was nothing at all. The silver-haired man’s blade was on the ground beside the two of them, and it was clear that the green-eyed _edain_ had attempted to draw it on the individual before them. The King of The Woodland realm wanted to curse, because while his guest might have had good intentions he was still _his guest_ and by proxy his _ward_ and any actions he took would be seen as proximal actions of the Kingdom of the Greenwood. Maglor would surely know this; such laws were older than he was...older than Oropher. He was, frankly, astonished that Macalaurë had managed to disarm the individual before him at all; he had proven himself practically un-disarmable in single combat. 

“I know your eyes.” 

Maglor’s voice was a svelte purr over a languid tongue. Sephiroth jerked ferociously, his expression strangely blank as he attempted to loose himself, to no avail. When he gave up, the Kinslayer laughed. 

“I do” he continued, his voice taking on the affectation of one speaking pityingly to a child. “Your eyes have seen death like I have...like my _brothers_ have.” A soft _’tsk’_. “Such a shame...you’d have had such merit when they were alive.” A cruel smirk. “And you know _fixation_...don’t you? Obsession...it’s under your skin...even if the subject of your thoughts has gone from your psyche...you know it.” The grin that spread across the last of the Fëanorians’ visage was a sharp as a dirk. “You bring darkness with you...it seeps from you into the earth...blackens your footsteps and turns the rot of your world into the roots of this one.” 

Sephiroth opened his mouth as if to refute it and Maglor threw back his head and laughed in such a way that it brought all of them up short; because no one, not dwarf nor elf nor man should sound so utterly lost to madness. 

“I don’t _care_ ” he chortled when he’d settled again. “I don’t, _mellon_. I don’t care if your presence brings this world to its knees, maybe it deserves it.” Grey eyes flicked to Thranduil. “You _will_ regret making an enemy of him, or letting him wander far...that much I promise you.” Another predatory head-tilt. “I just wanted to see...because I could feel it but I didn’t know what it was.” Maglor stepped back and Sephiroth stepped forward warily, rubbing his neck. Regarding him but a moment, the last son of Fëanor turned away so he could face Thranduil more fully. “I’ll take my leave” he said at length, smirking. “Remember, Woodland King...hiding in the ground did not become your forefathers...it does not become you.” 

He was gone. 

With his egress a sense of bated breath that Thranduil had not known was present seemed to dissipate. An invisible weight appeared to lift from his shoulders and he found that he suddenly felt lighter...more aware of his surroundings. 

“It’s true then” Legolas muttered. “The Curse becomes them to such a degree that they themselves are oppressive.” 

“There’s only one” the King of the Woodland Realm said darkly. “And let us be grateful for it.” 

“Who was that?” Sephiroth asked sharply, looking still-astonished at the fact he’d been disarmed and perhaps the truth that his hair was not a little bit untidy. 

Opening his mouth to reply, Thranduil paused when Meludir came jogging through a thicket and into the clearing, seemingly oblivious to the fact that a veritable legend had just exited it.

“Sire” the dark-haired elf exclaimed. “An Aragorn Son of Arathorn has arrived at the gates with a very strange-”

“-Estel!” Legolas gasped, throwing down his bow before apparently thinking better of it and snatching it back up again. Throwing his father an embarrassed glance that was quickly followed by an imploring glance said _adar_ was all-too-familiar with, he continued. “We will speak of this later, _Atar_ , I will go greet our guest.” 

“You will?” Thranduil asked imperiously, just for the sake of seeing Legolas look agonized. Hiding a smile, he waved a hand. “Very well, dismissed. But we _must_ discuss this.” When his attendant remained looking somewhat downtrodden he laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Go now, Meludir, and thank you.” 

Shooting a somewhat cantankerous look at Sephiroth, his assistant complied, though reluctantly. 

“There is an intruder in your woods” Sephiroth pointed out, sounding scandalized at the amount of disorder before him. 

“Maglor vowed not to remain in the world of elves when he could not finish his task” Thranduil replied heavily. “I suspect he merely sensed something from you...as bards are wont to do, and it was enough of a distraction from his madness that he could not resist his curiosity.” Frowning, the ruler of the Greenwood lowered himself upon a tree stump and frowned at his fingers. “Really” he huffed. “No one has heard hide nor hair of Maglor in an age...I will have to write Elrond.” 

“His madness, you said” the silver-haired man pressed, kneeling before him and looking up. It was not a submissive gesture, merely a communicative one...one that made him seem younger than he truly was. Suppressing yet another fond smile, Thranduil sighed and slid his crown from his hair...setting it on the ground beside him before leaning forward in a manner fairly conspiratorial. 

“Very well” he said quietly. “I shall tell you of the terrible fate of Macalaurë, son of Fëanor…”

“...And then you shall tell me a bit of yourself, for I find I know too little.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N** : I'm sorry if Maglor's appearance is a little flash in a pan..but I didn't want him to stick around because that didn't feel like Maglor, and at first I thought Glorfindel, but then I realized that Glorfindel wouldn't be there geographically for any reasons. So...abrupt!Maglor? And abrupt!ByeMaglor. I also seem to be writing shorter chapters lately. I'm working on correcting that. Thank you for reading. We also get abruptly!Aragorn here. I am not satisfied with this chapter but I've written it and deleted it seven times. I know it takes place in one place, I'll try to correct this with subsequent chapters. 
> 
> _”Avo”_ -Don't  
>  _"Hara"_ -Wait (Quenya)

**Author's Note:**

>  **Your Long and Lengthy A/N:** Reposting, if you still want to follow this, this is the place. So, I don't really know what's going to happen here, but this is a concept I've been playing with for a while. We may see a pairing, we may not. Specifically, it would be a Thranduil/Sephiroth pairing, but I would need to work this so that that pairing would work, and that would take a significant amount of time. Meaning that this would not be a two-shot. It will not-regardless of aim-be a very long ficlet. I'm still working on Miasma, but I needed a break to have some fun, and I had time. Generally, the more time I have to write, the more I'm going to post ^^ And this was, ultimately, so much fun to formulate, and I truly hope you have just as much fun reading it. 
> 
> Generally, I think this is a very strange crossover. But, I'm sort of for taking that sort of thing and attempting-however terribly-to make it believable. This took me a long while to write, and I still struggle with the concept of Sephiroth running...a little. But feasibly, in a situation like that, I think it's somewhat acceptable to consider that reality that he would-due to being used to control-want to take the situation into his hands when he could do it on his own terms. This isn't so much due to weakness as it is Sephiroth being a control freak. Also, in this fic you'll find that elves have similar prowess to SOLDIER; minus the night vision, of course. I think this is-in general-somewhat believable as we are dealing with a mythical situation.  
> Translations:
> 
> Mae govannen..etc: -well met! You did well my Lord!
> 
> Tolo, govano ven.-come join us
> 
> Galu!-good luck!  
> Westron,ma, naw? Menathab! -westron, good, yes? Let's go!  
> mellon-friend  
> Thanks for Reading!
> 
> R&R
> 
> *moarmoar notes: there may be some grammatical and formatting errors while I scramble to do all this and juggle my job and homelife.


End file.
